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On The Old Plantation 

REMINISCENCES OF HIS CHILDHOOD 



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BY 

j: G. CLINKSCALES 

Author of 
"HOW ZACH CAME TO COLLEGE" 



Spartanburg, South Carolina 

Band & White 

Publishers 

1916 



Copyrighted 

By J. G. CLINKSCALES 

1916 



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DEDICATION 

To my sister, Ellen Bates, who shared with me the 
joys and sorrows of my childhood, and whose unselfish 
life has meant so much to me, this book is affection- 
ately dedicated. J. G. C. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER I PAGE 

" Unc' Essick " — A Nobleman in Black 7 

CHAPTER n 
Dick — A Cripple Slave Boy 37 

CHAPTER m 
Christmas and the Moving Picture. : 52 

CHAPTER IV 
First Trading Expedition 59 

CHAPTER V 
The Eel and the Skeleton 73 

CHAPTER VI 
The Little Mountain School 78 

CHAPTER VII 
"De Baby " 98 

CHAPTER VIII 
" A Whole Plug o' Manifac " 136 



FOREWORD 

These chapters are written primarily for the benefit 
of my own children and grandchildren, and with the 
hope that they may not be wholly uninteresting to 
many others whose parents lived through the days of 
which I write. 

Too many of our young people know of the insti- 
tution of slavery only what theyVe learned from 
" Uncle Tom*s Cabin." Knowing only the negro who 
has grown up since the Civil War, and knowing noth- 
ing whatever of " de ole-time slav'ry nigger," they 
cannot have a correct idea of " a civilization that is 
gone." 

If what Mrs. Stowe wrote was true, and only that, 
then our children's children must conclude that their 
fathers were only half -civilized and worthy of all the 
horrors of the Reconstruction. Slavery was not all 
bad. It had its evils, God knows; but, on the dark 
picture, there were many bright spots: our children 
should be allowed to see them. J. G. C. 

Wofford College, March 30, igid. 



On The Old Plantation 



CHAPTER I 
''uNc' essick/' a nobleman in black 

Essex was his name, but to all the children on the 
plantation he was " Unc' Essick/' When I first knew 
him, Unc' Essick was a very important personage on 
my father's plantation. I was a little late arriving, 
being the eleventh of a family of twelve children, and 
was bom some years before the outbreak of the Civil 
War. 

As far back as I can remember, Unc' Essick was 
my father's foreman, general director — ** right-hand 
man." On many of the Southern plantations the fore- 
man was called " The Driver," and he was the driver 
literally. He carried his heavy whip, and did not fail 
to lay- it on the backs of his indolent or disobedient 
fellow-slaves. Some of these drivers were the most 
merciless task-masters, and some were pitilessly cruel. 
My father would' have none of that. His foreman 



8 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

was not allowed to touch one of his fellows. His 
business was to counsel, encourage, direct, and lead 
the others. Every morning he received his orders 
from my father, and every night he made his report. 
Intelligent readers know that it was against the law 
to teach a slave to read or write. Essex could neither 
read nor write, but I remember having heard my 
father say that the old man's reports were marvelous 
for accuracy and detail. 

In ante-bellum days there were in the middle sec- 
tion of South Carolina, and particularly in the coast 
counties — the rice-growing section — many plantations 
measuring many thousands of acres. On many of 
these slaves were numbered by the hundred ; on a few, 
there were more than a thousand. Some of the "large 
slave-owners," that is to say, the owners of more than 
a thousand, did not know their own negroes. In such 
cases, master and slave came in touch with each other 
only through the overseer, or driver. 

In the Piedmont section of my State, now, since 
the decline of the rice industry, the most prosperous, 
there were few large plantations, and comparatively 
few slaves. The attachment between master and slave 
was, in some cases, very strong and very beautiful. 

My father's plantation, "Broadway," lay between 
Johnson's Creek and Little River on the one side, and 
Penny's Creek on the other, and in Abbeville District, 
now Abbeville County, the home of Secession. In the 
entire tract there were only twelve hundred acres, and 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 9 

on it only one hundred and ten slaves. Their owner 
knew them all by name. 

The institution of slavery, such a curse to the 
South, so misunderstood and so abused, developed 
some great characters among both races. And both 
are rapidly passing. The number of men in the South 
who were slave-owners is rapidly growing smaller, 
and only occasionally does one meet an old negro who 
fixes his place among that rapidly decreasing number 
of citizens by doffing his hat and saying with evident 
pride : '* Yas, suh. Boss ; yas, suh, Fs a ole-time 
slav'ry nigger." 

Those of us who know the '' ole-time slav'ry nig- 
ger " best and honor him most, are unwilling for the 
rising generation of both races to know so little of his 
virtues. Of one of these worthies I! would tell the 
readers of this chapter. 



When I first knew Unc' Essick he was in the prime 
of a vigorous, powerful manhood, though more than 
fifty years of slave-life lay behind him. Five feet ten, 
he tipped the beam at one hundred and ninety pounds, 
and was as sinewy and as active as a Texas pony. 
Though unlettered, he was to us children a very prod- 
igy : he knew so much and could do so many things. 
His uniform kindness to us and his unfailing patience 
with us very greatly endeared him to us. 

From our mother and from the old negroes " at 



10 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

the quarter " — among the cabins — we learned the story 
of Unc' Essick's early life. In his young manhood he 
had been a " runaway nigger." I remember that this 
revelation came as a distinct shock to me. I could not 
understand how this man, my devoted friend, this 
trusted servant of my father, could have been a " run- 
away nigger." That was the bogy with which the 
nurse had frightened us into silence when we were 
unduly noisy or impatient. How this man, my Sir 
Galahad, could have been a ** runaway nigger," I 
could not understand, and I indignantly refused to 
believe when told so for the first time by another 
servant ; refused to believe it, and cried about it until 
the story was corroborated by my own mother. After 
that, I loved Unc' Essick none the less, but rather had 
greater respect for the " runaway nigger." I would 
not rest, however, until mother had told me every- 
thing about my hero's checkered career. 

On Southern plantations before the Civil War there 
was often comedy — sometimes tragedy ; nor was ro- 
mance always wanting. On my father's plantation two 
of his young men were rivals for the hand of a dusky 
maid : one, Essex, a common laborer who herded with 
twoscore of his kind, and the other, Griffin, one of my 
father's teamsters, a crack driver and an acknowledged 
aristocrat among the negroes. Nowadays one seldom 
sees a wagon drawn by six mules ; in those days they 
were very common, and a plantation that could not 
boast of one or more such teams was looked upon by 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION ii 

the negroes as of inferior grade, and the owner thereof 
as but slightly removed from the " po' buckra " class. 
To be the driver of a six- mule team, well matched 
and well equipped, was a mark of no little distinction. 
Griffin, my father's second teamster (Big Tom was 
his chief), though young, had made himself quite a 
name throughout the neighborhood by holding on to 
a runaway team until he was dragged from his saddle 
and had one ear cut off by the front wheel of the 
wagon. This almost fatal accident occurred while 
Griffin was taking a load of furniture to Smyrna Camp 
Meeting Ground. 

Today only a few scattered stones and a gnarled, 
dwarfed tree or two mark the old Smyrna Camp 
Ground, the annual meeting place of the best people 
on the western side of Abbeville County. The people 
were well-to-do, so the matter of expense was entirely 
negligible. Instead of the ordinary shack one sees 
nowadays at the few camp meetings kept up in South 
Carolina, the people built comfortable two-story frame 
dwellings, and for two weeks, sometimes longer, liter- 
ally enjoyed the meeting. Every '' tenter " kept open 
house, and not a few Georgians crossed over the 
Savannah to " get religion " and enjoy the meeting. 
Nowadays the people of my old county go to the 
mountains of North Carolina a few weeks in the sum- 
mer for rest and recreation; then they went to the 
banks of the Savannah, to the Smyrna Camp Meeting. 
And I dare say they got about as much from that 



12 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

annual meeting as their children and grandchildren 
get from their yearly pilgrimage to the blue hills of 
our sister commonwealth. 

Besides being the best muleteer in the district, 
Griffin was a fiddler] whose reputation extended far 
beyond the boundaries of his master's plantation. Not 
only did he furnish music for his own people at 
their annual '' cake-walks," but he helped often to 
furnish music at the dances of the white race. That 
fact,, together with his recognized ability as a wag- 
oner, made him an aristocrat. He deigned to associ- 
ate with men and women of his own color, but for 
" po' white trash " he had a contempt. When he left 
home with the load of furniture and provisions for 
the camp meeting, Griffin was in a jolly, good humor. 
He called back to one of his fellows : '' I don't mind 
camp meetin*, ef dey des let me play my fiddle." In 
two hours Griffin was picked up at the foot of Crosby's 
Hill on Rocky River in an unconscious condition and 
minus one ear. Regaining consciousness, he declared : 
" Dis is de judgment ob de Lord; I'll nuver tech dat 
fiddle ag'in." And he didn't. Other things he would 
do — curse, fight, and drink ; but play the fiddle — never. 

Late one evening, about " feed time," a great com- 
motion was heard at the barn. Father ran out to 
investigate. At the rear of the barn he found Essex 
and Griffin engaged in a fight. A dozen other slaves 
were enjoying the diversion. Now, these two power- 
ful animals were fighting, not according to the rules 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 13 

of the ring, but just old-fashioned " fist and skull," 
science to the winds. Each of these splendid animals 
meant that to be a fight to the finish; and it would 
have been but for the timely appearance of my father 
on the scene. 

The majority of my readers can have no under- 
standing or appreciation of the pride a slave-owner 
felt in the physical strength of his men-servants. 
Most negroes were expected to do unskilled labor; 
great strength of bone and muscle was therefore the 
sine qua non. When my father discovered the cause 
of the commotion among the negroes, he stood for 
just a moment admiring the unflinching fortitude with 
which each of the two black men took his punishment. 
It was a pair of powerful men, and each was " dead 
game." 

I can say of a truth, and for that truth I am pro- 
foundly grateful, my father's slaves not only respected 
and obeyed him, but loved him. So when his voice 
rang out sharp and clear, " Stop that fighting ! " the 
two combatants lowered their arms, stepped apart, and 
stood facing each other like two great wild boars ready 
for a death-struggle. 

" What does this mean ? " demanded the master. 

Essex was the first to speak, while Griffin simply 
showed his pearly teeth. 

" Dis nigger want my gal, Marster, en 'e kyah git 
*er," said Essex, snapping his heavy jaws with bitter 
defiance. 



14 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

" Dat a lie, Marster," growled Griffin ; " she, my 

gal." 

" Who is it you are talking about, Essex ? " asked 
my father. 

" Hit Cindy, suh. Little Cindy." 

There were two Cindys on the plantation — Big 
Cindy and Little Cindy. 

Turning to a young girl who had been a witness to 
the fight, my father said : "Go tell Little Cindy to 
come here.'' 

Little Cindy was soon on hand, and was grinning 
as if perfectly delighted with what she had heard. 

" Cindy," said my father, " these boys have been 
fighting about you — now which do you want ? " 

The dusky damsel broadened her grin, shifted her 
weight from one foot to the other, dug her big toe 
into the soft earth, and said with a glance at the other 
girls now gathered for the fun : " I wants de one 
whut kin whup ; I want de bes' man. Dat whut I 
tell 'em." 

That had been her decision, and the two rivals had 
met to decide the matter once for all in accordance 
with her decree. 

" You know I do not allow the folks to fight, 
Cindy," said my father. " Now, Essex and Griffin 
shall not fight any more, but you may make choice 
between them : which one will you take ? " 

"Well den, I'll tek Griffin," said Cindy, twisting 
her fingers together and blushing a blush that was 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 15 

never seen, because Little Cindy was as black as her 
great-grandmother, who came from the jungles of 
Africa. 

'* Now then," said my father, " Cindy has settled 
this question, boys ; let that decision be final — we must 
have no more fighting." 

Poor Essex! Resolute, game, tough, he would 
have fought Griffin to the death for Little Cindy, the 
apple of his eye, the fairest lily of the valley. Yes, he 
would have fought the whole world for Little Cindy ; 
but now all was lost. In his very presence, and with 
those very lips that to him had been so dear, Cindy 
had said without a tremor of the voice, " I'll tek 
Griffin." Without a word or even a glance toward 
the girl in ebony who had sealed his destiny, with eyes 
cast down, Essex slowly made his way toward his 
cabin door. 

What did Griffin do? Well, not exactly what one 
would expect to see the fortunate lover in the 
" movies " do. Oh, no. Stooping to roll up one leg 
of his pantaloons above his knee, thereby exhibiting a 
bunch of magnificent muscles. Griffin opened his lips 
a little wider, showing two rows of as fine teeth as 
ever stuck in a human being's head, and said with 
suppressed delight: **Dat whut I tell dat nigger, 
Marster. Cindy love me. Dat whut make me fight 
Essick so hard." 

The matter settled, my father made his way back 
to "De Big 'Ouse," where he related the whole affair 



i6 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

to my mother, who long years after that gave it to me 
in all of its details. 

I loved Unc' Essick so that when my mother told 
me of Cindy's decision against him, I burst into tears. 
Then my loving, sympathetic mother, who had given 
twelve children to the world, drew the eleventh to her 
bosom, kissed away his tears, and said with a voice 
full of tenderness: "Never mind, my son; after a 
while you will be old enough to know that slavery 
has its tragedies." 

II 

Essex did not respond to roll-call the next morn- 
ing when the big farm bell called the " hands " to work. 
The foreman investigated, and, after a thorough 
search of the premises, reported to my father that 
Essex was missing and could not be found. 

Never before had Essex failed to respond for 
duty, being of perfect health and a willing, cheerful 
worker. So my father was naturally puzzled by his 
absence, the more so as it came so soon after the inci- 
dent of the evening before. 

" Dat coon done run'd off," said one of his fellow- 
slaves with a chuckle. " Uh-huh ! Dat right ! " chimed 
in a half-dozen. And then their speculations as to his 
future were amusing and ridiculous. 

Essex had not blown out his brains, like some re- 
jected lovers do, but had " jined the bird gang" sure 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 17 

enough, and was not seen again on the plantation for 
three long years — Essex was now a " runaway nigger." 

My father was worried that the incident of the 
evening before should have had such a sequel, but he 
had such confidence in the sanity of the runaway that 
he believed he would return to his place after a few 
days, or after a few weeks at most. In that, however, 
he was mistaken. Essex had gotten a taste of freedom, 
and, though it was purchased at a terrible cost, he pre- 
ferred it to slavery and ihe regular grind of farm life. 

Of course, the runaway was legally advertised and 
reward offered for his capture. But week after week 
and then month after month passed, and nothing was 
heard of Essex. After a year, the reward offered was 
doubled, for Essex had been an obedient servant and 
valuable slave. Still no word of the runaway came, 
and father concluded that his negro was dead or had 
been captured by some unscrupulous parties and car- 
ried to the far South, as was sometimes done. Many 
a South Carolina negro found a grave in the cane- 
fields of Louisiana. 

Not so with Essex. South Carolina and Georgia 
were good enough for him; and the Savannah River 
was to him a joy forever. Essex had been by odds the 
best swimmer on my father's place, and with that fact 
Cindy was twitted after she rendered her decision 
against him and in favor of Griffin, the expert wag- 
oner. So when chased by the " nigger dogs," Essex, 
like the shrewd old buck of the forest in which he 



i8 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

slept, took refuge in the Savannah. Once in the river, 
he was perfectly safe ; for, besides having the endur- 
ance of the wild animal, he had intelligence and 
judgment far above the average slave. He knew the 
instinct and habits of the hound perfectly, and could 
fool him with greater ease than any buck or wildcat 
could. 

Essex lived in the swamps and forests on both 
sides of the Savannah, not many miles from the City 
of Augusta, Georgia. He laughed at the ringing of 
the farm bells he heard, and, like the other wild ani- 
mals of his habitat, he did most of his sleeping in 
daylight. Many a time he was chased by the best- 
trained dogs on either side of the river, but his fleet- 
ness of foot and uncommon shrewdness enabled him 
always to elude his pursuers and make good his escape. 
In the summer, he wanted no better sport than to slip 
into the river and kiss good-by to hound and hunter. 
When necessary, he could remain in the river as long 
as an otter. When the weather was favorable and 
the moon not too bright, he did his foraging for food 
after nightfall. The henroosts along the Savannah he 
knew much better than some of their owners knew 
them, and thought it not a crime to levy toll whenever 
his appetite called for fresh, fat fowl. A copper- 
colored woman on a Georgia plantation baked a ** pone 
of bread " for him occasionally, and regularly washed 
and mended his scanty supply of clothing. 

The position of the runaway was unique. His 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 19 

freedom was purchased at a terrible price. With the 
silent stars his only sentinels, his house a hollow log 
or a hole in the ground, he had to be as sly as a fox 
and as alert as an Indian. Hunted by day and night, 
sometimes hungry and often cold, and with a constant 
dread of being betrayed by one of his own race, his 
life must have been a very hell. Essex stood it for 
three long years. He felt the pangs of cold and 
hunger, and many of the dogs that chased him he 
knew by name. These, the loud-mouthed, tireless 
" nigger dogs," were his most dreaded enemies. Fire- 
arms and poison he could not get; but, finding a 
bottle, he crushed it into small fragments, baked it in 
some bread, and fed it to the dogs, when their owners 
little dreamed that he was near. That meant sure 
death to the dogs. 

Essex had a half-score of aliases. The wily, foxy, 
dog-killing runaway became the most notorious and 
best-hated negro in the two States. But the end came 
with Essex. Malinda, his " Georgia gal," was his 
Delilah. They quarreled, Malinda and Essex did, one 
night, and she betrayed him. In less than forty-eight 
hours he was behind prison bars in the City of 
Augusta. 

Advised of the capture of his slave, my father 
went to Augusta, paid all costs, and brought Essex 
back to the home he had left three years before. 
Augusta was only seventy-five miles from home, so 
father drove through in his buggy. 



20 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

Master and slave talked freely on the return trip. 
Essex answered with manifest sincerity all the ques- 
tions my father put to him, and talked freely of his 
trying experiences and narrow escapes during those 
long years. 

" Dat gal tell on me, suh ; dat Malinda tell de white 
folks. I could fool de dogs, but when dat yaller gal 
tell dem white folks, dey trap me." 

Essex had been such a faithful negro, my father 
was curious to know just what motive prompted him 
to run away. He said to him : *' Essex, you have 
told me all about the hard times you have had, how 
you had your toes frost-bitten and how you suffered 
for food at times ; now I want you to tell me why 
you ran away. Did I not feed and clothe you well? 
And was I not kind to you 1 " 

" Yas, suh, Marster; yas, suh, I nuver did get 
hongry at home, en you nuver did hit me narry lick. 
But it was dis way : I des nachily couldn' stan' it when 
Cindy say she tek Griffin an' lef me. I des couldn' 
stay on de same place an' see Little Cindy livin' wid 
Griffin. Marster, I sho would a kilt dat nigger — I 
des had to leave. Den, arter I git away, I taste how 
it is to be free, en I didn' come back. Marster, is 
Little Cindy livin'?" 

" No, Essex ; Cindy is dead, and Griffin has mar- 
ried again." 

"Gawd, Marster! Is Little Cindy dade?"— and 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 21 

the poor fellow rubbed the tears from his cheek on the 
rope with which his hands were tied. 

** Yes, Cindy is dead." 

" She was a good gal, Marster ; I loved dat 'oman." 

Then the two men, master and slave, rode many 
miles without a word. 

When the second day out from Augusta, and they 
were within a few miles of home, the black man said 
to his owner : " Marster, you alius treat me mighty 
good, en I bin a mean nigger to run'd off dat er way. 
I got nuff sleepin' in log, en runnin* tru brier patch. 
Ef you'll let me off dis time en not whup me, I'll be de 
bes' nigger on de place, en I won't run'd off no mo'." 

My father looked the black man straight in the eye, 
then said deliberately : *' Essex, you never did tell me 
a lie; I believe you are speaking the truth now. I'm 
going to trust you." 

" Fo' Gawd, Marster, I tellin' de trufe." 

Then my father took out his knife and cut the rope 
with which Essex was bound. 

" Now, Essex," said father, " you will live in the 
house with Big Tom and his wife until you can find 
you a wife. As soon as you get married, you shall 
have a house of your own." 

In six weeks Essex had married Dinah, a good 
woman, and got a house of his own. He became the 
father of London, one of the two negroes that Mr. 
Lincoln freed for me. My father gave me London 
and Jack for my own. 



22 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

III 

Essex redeemed his pledge. He developed into 
" de bes' nigger on de place " ; and, after a few years 
of faithful service, was made the foreman. When I 
first knew him, though he was still in the prime of a 
vigorous manhood, his kinky hair was turning gray, 
and to all the children he was " Unc' Essick." 

The average black man loves authority. Not so 
with Unc' Essick, though he accepted the place of 
foreman with all its responsibilities without a protest. 
He was prompt, accurate, exact, and demanded first- 
class service from his fellows, but was always sympa- 
thetic, never arrogant. For an uncultured man — a 
black slave-man — he had high ideals of what consti- 
tuted righteous living ; and up to these ideals he tried 
to hold his fellow-slaves without harshness or unkind- 
ness. The negroes, with few exceptions, loved Unc' 
Essick and trusted him impUcitly. My father, now 
in bad health, actually leaned on him, and counted 
himself fortunate in having as foreman a man of such 
fine judgment and one in all respects so absolutely 
trustworthy. Like the white people, the negroes, 
though slaves, had their petty jealousies. There were 
two or three men on the plantation who did not like 
Unc' Essick, and for no other reason than that he 
was promoted over them. They could not understand 
how the reformed runaway deserved more at my 
father's hands than they did. Through all the years 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 23 

they had been faithful, they claimed; now this man 
who had been away for three years was freely par- 
doned and highly honored. History was repeating 
itself, but they could not understand it. 

I think every man looking back over his past life 
can call up some event or some incident that marks 
his first intelligent conception of the existence of 
things outside of himself; or the first distinct con- 
sciousness of his own identity. I do not remember 
Unc' Essick farther back than the day the first Seces- 
sion speech was made on Secession Hill in the town 
of Abbeville, South Carolina. Unc' Essick and I were 
there. Father was there. I was still wearing dresses. 
That day I can never forget. I remember the great 
crowd of men and boys as they surged by me and 
around me. I recall even the frantic gesticulation of 
one of the speakers — the one, I guess, who promised 
to drink every drop of blood spilled in the War, 

That was a strange, new world to me — the crowd, 
the speaking, the yelling, the little old women with the 
ginger cakes and cider — everything. And I stood it 
all with wide-open eyes and attentive ears until the 
cannon began to boom. That was more than I could 
stand. So I ran screaming to Unc' Essick. The 
faithful guardian pressed me trembling to his great, 
throbbing heart, and, brushing the tears from my 
cheeks with his big, rough hand, said with peculiar 
tenderness : ** Nuver min', honey, nuver min' ; don' 



24 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

you know if dat big gun bodder dis chile, Unc' Essick 
chaw it up an' spit it out on de groun' ? " 

Then I smiled, and I rested my head on his great, 
broad shoulder and pressed my cheek against the 
rough face of the black man. I felt safe now, per- 
fectly safe. And I was. That man would have died 
for me. Did not my mother say to him when we left 
home that morning, " Now, Essex, take care of the 
baby ? " Yes ; Unc' Essick would have died that day 
for Missus's baby. And the baby knew it, and Missus 
knew it. 

That evening, when the day's excitement was over 
and we were nearing home, Unc' Essick said to my 
father: " Marster, who gwine fight? I hear dem 
ge'men talk 'bout war, en fight, en blood — whut dey 
mean ? Do dey shoot one nudder ? " He really under- 
stood but little more of what he heard than the child 
that sat upon his knee. 

My father explained the situation as fully as he 
could to Unc' Essick, and made him understand that 
war was terrible. 

" Does dey stan' up en shoot one nu'er, Marster.'* " 

" Oh, yes ; and thousands are killed in war, Essex." 

" Gawd, Marster, how kin dey stan' up en let men 
shoot at 'em bedout runnin'? Why, dat night when 
dem paterrollers down in Georgia shoot at me en nip 
off a little piece of my year, I des quit runnin' en 
flewd. Yas, suh, I flewd." 

I looked up into my father's face in time to catch 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 25 

a broad smile. " Yes/' he said, " I guess you came as 
near flying as a man ever did." 

" Yas, suh, I sho flewd. A man kin fly when 'e 
git skeered 'nuff. All 'e got to do is to guide 'e foots 
— dey take 'im whar 'e gwine." 

The next day a half-dozen neighbors called to dis- 
cuss the political situation with my father, and with 
my mother, for she was a great reader and took as 
lively interest in public affairs as my father did. I 
was too young to understand much of what they said. 
But this much I caught: My father, shaking his head 
emphatically, said more than once : *' Gentlemen, it's 
a mistake — a terrible mistake — and the South will re- 
gret the day she brings on war." 

But the South did secede; and though my father 
opposed the step, he seceded with his State. More 
than that, he invested his money in Confederate bonds. 

The baby that heard the first speech on Secession 
Hill grew and grew rapidly, and, I am sure, was no 
better than the average boy with Irish blood in his 
veins. To me life was very real. The great out-of- 
doors appealed to me strongly, as it does to this good 
day. Constantly exposed to the danger of being 
kicked or thrown by the mules, gored by the bulls, or 
butted by the billy goats, I was an object of special 
concern to my mother. In her solicitude for my 
safety, she appealed to Unc* Essick. She couldn't 
keep me in. Being courageous herself, she did not 
desire to do so. So she said : " Essex, do watch him 



26 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

as closely as you can ; he is so imprudent, so reckless, 
that I do not know when I may see him brought in 
mangled and torn." 

Unc' Essick promised, and I want to bear testi- 
mony to the fact that the old man never forgot that 
promise. The morning I rolled off old Bill and broke 
my arm, he picked me up tenderly, and carrying me 
in his arms to my mother, said : " Missus, dis chile 
sholy will git kilt ef he don't stop foolin' wid dat 
hoss." And the day I slipped off the pole while " skin- 
ning the cat " at Dinah's house and split my scalp on 
the corner of a brick, Unc* Essick was distressed be- 
cause I bled so freely, and when he carried me all 
bloody to my mother, he said : " Fo' Gawd, Missus, 
whut I'm gwine do wid dis chile? De debil heself 
kyah keep up wid him." 

My father's plantation stretched for a mile along 
Martin's millpond on Little River. Unc' Essick and 
I had many a good time fishing along that river bank. 
The water was so deep that mother would not allow 
me to go there without Unc' Essick. He was an ex- 
pert fisherman as well as a great swimmer. When the 
rain caught us fishing, we found shelter in Fox's Den. 
This was a large sheltering rock at the big bend of 
the river beneath which a dozen persons could find 
shelter from the severest rainstorm. Tradition had it 
that in the early days of the history of our country 
Tom Fox, a white man, stole a negro in Virginia and 
sold him in South Carolina. Few crimes were more 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 27 

heinous in the South in those days than " nigger steal- 
ing"; and, if caught, the thief paid the penalty with 
his life, like the horse thief in the West. Closely 
pursued, Tom Fox took refuge under this rock and 
there lived for many months. But Fox was finally 
caught and executed. Since then his hiding place has 
been called " Fox's Den." 

One day, while sitting beneath the protecting rock, 
watching the patter of the raindrops on the millpond 
as it stretched out before us, I said to my guardian : 
*' Unc* Essick, who made this rock ?" 

" Lawdy, chile, whut you bodder 'bout dis rock 
fur? Gawd mek de rock, honey; He mek everthing; 
He mek de water out dar ; He mek dis tree ; He mek 
me en you ; He mek me black en you white." 

" Unc' Essick," I persisted, "where is God?" 

" Good Gawd, honey, whut mattered you? Dey 
tell me Gawd live eb'rywhar. Miss Marthy tell me 
Gawd inside you." 

Miss Martha Crosby, one of the sweetest old ladies 
I ever knew, boarded in my home, taught the Little 
Mountain school, and every Sunday afternoon taught 
my father's slaves the Bible. 

" Miss Marthy," he continued, '' say Gawd inside 
you. I *spec He is. He in your ma en pa, en Miss 
Marthy, en Dinah. But, honey. Gawd des couldn' 
stay in some folks — dey too mean. Now, dar's Kizzy ; 
does you t'ink Gawd could stay in Kizzy ? Uh-uh ! 
dat nigger too mean — dat nigger cuss, en steal, en 



28 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

fight. No, no, honey, de debil stay in dat kine. He 
mean ; he love folks whut cuss, en steal, en fight." 

" Unc' Essick, I wish I could see Jesus." 

" Wal, honey, when we git home you look at yo' 
ma; I t'ink she look lak Jesus — she so good en kind 
to uverbody." 

My mother has been in heaven forty years. Her 
picture hangs above my desk. When I see that smile 
that never passes, and those loving eyes that follow 
me into every corner of the room; when I think of 
how she gave her life a willing sacrifice for the good 
of humanity, white and black, I am fully persuaded 
that the old man was right. I see reflected in her life 
more and more the character of my Lord and Master. 

The old, old question of God and heaven, that 
must come to every normal child, came to me in Fox's 
Den. The man-child, so full of animal life, was strug- 
gling for light — spiritual light. What philosopher, 
what theologian could have served him better than 
Unc' Essick did — Unc' Essick, the reformed run- 
away? 

The war cloud had burst in all its fury. We were 
not disturbed by the roar of musketry or the booming 
of cannon, but that our country was passing through a 
baptism of fire and blood there could be no doubt. 
The weekly paper brought the mournful, saddening 
list of wounded and dead, and a dozen neighbor boys 
had been brought to the graveyard at old Shiloh 
Church. There were sighing and sorrow everywhere. 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 29 

My brother, my only brother, was with Lee in Vir- 
ginia. My father's health was bad, so the plantation 
was left to mother and Unc' Essick. Besides looking 
after the varied interests of the farm, Unc* Essick 
found time to teach me to ride and shoot. He had 
little patience with carelessness in handling either 
horse or gun. The old man thought it was a disgrace 
for a " ge'man " to be unable to shoot accurately, ride 
well, and swim with ease. 

My father died in the spring of 1864. I stood for 
the first time in the presence of death. I was stag- 
gered by the pale face and intense suffering of my 
father. I couldn't understand the subdued agony of 
my mother. Now I know, and have known these 
many years, what it meant. 

Father called for Unc' Essick. " Essex," he said, 
" I am going to die. I can't last much longer. It's 
hard for me to leave Missus and the children. These 
are terrible times, Essex. William is in Virginia, and 
may never come back. You have been honest and 
faithful, Essex, and I want to lea-\^e Missus and the 
children in your care. Will you take care of them, 
Essex ? " 

The big-hearted, broad-shouldered slave had stood 
by the bed trembling like a leaf and sobbing like a 
wounded child. Dropping on his knees, he took my 
father's emaciated hand in both of his, and then press- 
ing it to his lips, said between his sobs : " Gawd bless 



30 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

you, Marster; e£ Gawd spar me, I'll tek kere Missus 
an' dese chillun. Gawd knows I wilL" 

And no man of any color was ever truer to his 
promise. Many a night he slept on the piazza, and 
there I really believe he would have died before any 
man, black or white, could have entered that door 
uninvited. 

IV 

When Sherman's army was passing through 
Georgia, there were all sorts of rumors as to the deso- 
lation and ruin left in its path. When, leaving Savan- 
nah, that army turned toward Columbia, all the lonely 
women of South Carolina thought they would be 
robbed of all property and left to starve. Sharing 
the apprehension with thousands of others, my mother 
took counsel with Unc' Essick, her only adviser. 

'* Essex," she said, " I'm afraid Sherman's army 
will take everything we've got. What shall we do ? " 

" Gawd knows, Missus, but one t'ing sho : ef you 
gi' me yo' silver en eb'ryt'ing you want hide, I'll put it 
whar no Yankee kyah git it. An', Missus, ef you let 
me, I hide some dat meat. Dat meat too good fur 
dem Yankee to eat." 

" Do you think you can hide my silver so they 
can't find it?" 

" Yas'm, I kin put it whar nobody kin git it ; but 
dar's one t'ing, Missus : ef dey kill me, den you won't 
see yo' silver no mo' — hit'll stay right whar I put it." 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 31 

When assured by mother that they would not kill 
him, but that they would take him off with them if he 
would go, the old man said with a troubled look: 
" Why, Missus, didn't I promise Marster I would tek 
kere you en de chillun ? *' 

" Yes, you did, Essex, and I know you'll do it ; 
when do you want the silver ? " 

" You put it right here on dis top step tonight, des 
soon ez all de chillun go to bed. Don't let nobuddy 
see it." 

The box of silver was placed just where Unc* 
Essick wanted it, and the next day we ate with pewter 
spoons and two-pronged forks. Seeing these things, 
we children concluded that Sherman's army had 
actually come during the night and stolen away the 
silver while we slept. Some of us began to ask ques- 
tions, but a shake of the head and a well-known look 
from mother reassured us. Somehow, we knew Unc' 
Essick had a hand in the business. 

That was an unusually busy week for Unc' Essick. 
Whatever mother prized, either for its intrinsic value 
or for its association, was turned over to him without 
a question as to what disposition would be made of it. 

" Missus," Unc' Essick said to mother, " dem 
'lasses in de bar'l — I kin fill all dem jugs an' hide 'em 
so Marse Sherman kyah nuver find 'em." 

"All right, Essex; hide just what you please — 
molasses, meat, everything." 

" Marse Sherman " had no chance at " dem 



32 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

'lasses " ; but I am sure Unc Essick was right, for he 
hid the jugs in the river swamp two miles from home, 
and no being with less shrewdness than a fox could 
have followed his own trail through that tangle of 
long grass and underbrush. A thousands pounds of 
bacon he buried in another section of the plantation 
in a pine wood thickly carpeted with springy, spongy 
needles, over which he could roll the barrels (for he 
had packed it in barrels) without leaving any evidence 
by which he could be tracked. 

During that week Unc' Essick seemed to be on the 
alert day and night. I couldn't catch him in his cabin 
after supper, and didn't understand when I did find 
him in daylight why he didn't have time to take me 
on his knee and answer my questions. They were but 
the questions of a child, yet throbbing with worlds of 
interest to that child. With Unc' Essick constantly 
on the go and my mother so often on her knees in the 
little shed-room, I felt sure something was about to 
happen. 

One day a squad of Federal soldiers came by and 
asked for something to eat. Mother had dinner 
prepared for them. They were not as polite nor as 
gentlemanly as they might have been in the presence 
of a widow whose hospitality they were receiving. 
They were ruffians. One of them caught me by the 
ear and twisted it until I cried. I caught my mother's 
skirt and, sobbing, buried my face in her apron. 

Pointing her finger at the man, the courageous lit- 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 33 

tie woman said with considerable feeling : " You are 
no gentleman, sir; you are a disgrace to the uniform 
you wear." 

" You go to hell ! " was the insolent retort. 

Unc' Essick saw and heard what happened. 
" Missus," he said, when they were gone, " dem's no 
ge'men ; dat man whut pull my baby year ain* nuttun 
but po' buckra — he po' white trash. Ef Marster wuz 
here, he'd sho mek dat man look down de bar'l^o' he 
shotgun." 

But Sherman's army never came. Only a few 
stragglers or camp-followers came within a mile of 
my home. 

When the smoke from the smoldering embers of 
our once beautiful capital city had cleared away, and 
all fear of Sherman's army was gone, mother told 
Unc' Essick he might bring in the silver and other 
buried treasure. To my inexpressible delight, Unc' 
Essick said I might go with him to gather up all the 
things he had so cleverly hidden. I had a picnic. 

First, we went for the silver. The faithful old 
man took me to the river swamp. At the mouth of 
Spur Creek, a small tributary to the river, he rolled 
up his pantaloons above his knees, took me on his 
back, saying, " Now, baby, you hole tight 'round my 
neck," and stepping into the stream, he waded up it 
three hundred yards or more and then stepped out 
into a jungle that was fit only for the habitat of wild 
animals and runaways. Slipping his hand under some 



34 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

long fallen grass, he drew out a short-handled spade. 
Examining very minutely the bark on a willow tree, 
on which he had made some mark intelligible to him 
only, he got his direction, and, taking me on his back 
again, he crawled, climbed, and walked a hundred 
yards into the heart of the swamp. Seating me on a 
bending tree, so that I could see all that was done, he 
pulled away some trash almost underneath me, and, 
driving the spade into the soft, loamy soil, soon 
brought up the box of silver and placed it on the tree 
beside me. 

I was lost ; was as helpless as a baby sure enough, 
but knew the man in whom I had placed my trust. 

After so long a time, we got home. Unc' Essick 
made other trips to the swamps and fields that day, 
but I had enough for one day. After a few days 
everything was brought in; not one thing was lost. 
Unc' Essick had been true to " Missus an' de chillun." 

V 

The War closed, and the negroes were freed. After 
two or three years of trying experiences in the man- 
agement of the farm, mother rented the plantation to 
a white man and moved to a little village in another 
county in search of educational facilities for her chil- 
dren. The negroes, like those of other plantations, 
were scattered " to the four winds." Some of them 
I kept up with for a few years, Unc* Essick in par- 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 3S 

ticular. After a while, however, I lost sight of all — 
even of Unc' Essick. 

A dozen years ago I met Mack, who was but a child 
when he was set free. All these years Mack had 
lived in the neighborhood of his birthplace. I tried to 
learn from him the whereabouts of at least a few of 
the other f reedmen ; but he could tell me of only two 
or three. 

'* Dey dade, suh," he said ; " en dem whut ain't 
dade, dun scattered." 

" And Unc' Essick, Mack ; can you tell me what 
became of Unc' Essick? " 

" Unc' Essick dade, suh, long ago ; he git drownded." 

" What, Unc' Essick drowned, and he the best 
swimmer in the county ? ** 

"Yas, suh, he git drownded; I seed him; I he'p 
git 'im out. He tuk de cramp." 

Need I blush to confess that I brushed the tears 
from my cheek when I heard of the tragic death of 
Unc' Essick? No, reader; if you knew slavery at its 
best — if you knew the close relationship and the tender 
feeling existing between master and slave on some 
plantations — then I need not blush. If true worth 
consists of " fidelity in one's lot " wherever duty calls, 
then this colored man — this slave man — was a man of 
true worth indeed — he was one of the noblemen of 
the world. He taught the wayward white child to 
love the truth, to tell the truth ; he taught me the names 
and habits of the birds ; he taught me to swim, shoot. 



36 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

and ride. He taught me nothing of books, but much 
of Ufe. Of all my teachers, from the first to the most 
cultured at the university, very few impressed my life 
more profoundly than did this uncultured child of 
nature. 

In an unmarked grave sleep the ashes of Unc' 
Essick, the faithful slave, the patient teacher, the 
colored gentleman. Lovingly, reverently, would I lay 
this little tribute on the grave of one of the best and 
truest and noblest men I ever knew — white or black. 




CHAPTER II 

DICK, THE SLAVE BOY 

" What is your name, young man? " 

" Richard Harris, suh, but dey calls me Dick," 
was the prompt, intelligent reply that came from a 
bright-eyed little copper-colored negro, as he stood in 
line with a dozen others while their owner, a slave 
dealer, was discoursing earnestly on the excellence of 
the group and the particularly fine points of several 
individuals, 

" Yas, suh, dey calls me Dick," continued the boy ; 
" he say " — nodding his head toward the " drover " 
now at the other end of the line — ** he say Richard 
too long name fur a nigger." 

My father was pleased with the intelligence of the 
child, and, when the owner approached Dick's end of 
the line, asked him how much he wanted for the boy. 
The price was named, a check was written, and Dick 
stepped out of line. When my father said, '* Come 
with me, my boy," the little fellow spread a smile all 
over his bright face and waved a farewell to his com- 
panions still standing in line uncertain as to their des- 
tiny — silently, submissively wondering whether they, 
too, would be bought and kept in South Carolina, or 



38 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

be allowed to go further South, to that region which 
to them meant sickness and chains and death. They 
were not all children, and some of them had heard 
exaggerated stories of the horrors of the Louisiana 
cane fields. Thus far they had come from the tobacco 
fields of Virginia. 

It was rather singular that the little darkey, going 
he knew not where, and with a white man he had 
never seen before, was disposed to be rather talkative. 
Nor did the new master restrain him. 

" Where did you come from, Dick ? " he was 
asked. 

" Furginny, suh ; us come fum Furginny," was the 
prompt reply. 

" What was your owner's name ? " 

"Who dat, suh?" 

" Your master, what was his name ? " 

" O yas, suh, he name Marse John Harris ; dat 
whut he name." 

" What was your daddy's name ? " 

" Me ain' had no daddy, suh ; mammy say me ain' 
gut no daddy — she say she des find me." 

" What made your master sell you.'* " 

" My mammy die, suh, en Marse John say 'e doan 
need me no mo' ; en 'e sell me." 

My father was sorry for the little fellow, and said 
to him : 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 39 

" Well, Dick, Vm taking you to a good home ; if 
you will be good, you will never be sold again." 

" Yas, suh, ril be good ; I'll be smart, suh." 

Just a few days before this momentous event in 
the life of Dick, the twelve-year-old slave boy, my 
father heard my mother express the wish that she 
could have a bright, quick boy whom she could train 
up to suit herself. The butler she had was so stupid 
she feared she could never develop him into a satis- 
factory servant. So father purchased Dick for the 
purpose of presenting him to mother as a boy he felt 
sure would " fill the bill." 

The next morning Dick was installed as house- 
t>oy, general utility servant. And though so young, 
the little negro was so bright and quick and " smart," 
he soon won the confidence and admiration of the 
entire household and proved to be one of the most 
satisfactory servants my mother ever owned. 

Dick grew rapidly, and, being all the time about 
the house, soon learned to talk as correctly as the aver- 
age white child. 

When he was fifteen years old, Dick's uncommon 
intelligence made him quite notorious throughout the 
neighborhood. He felt the importance of his position, 
picked up, and could use words that were utterly 
meaningless to his fellows. Indeed, he looked with a 
kind of contempt upon the ordinary " field-hand." 

Some gentleman from Georgia tried to buy the 



40 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

precocious lad. Five of them were guests in our home 
for a week. They had come from beyond the Savan- 
nah to attend the sale of a large estate just three miles 
from home. One of the wealthiest men in the county 
had died, and to sell his property, including lands, 
stock of all kinds, and 350 negroes, required more 
than a week. These gentlemen, wealthy Georgia 
planters, had come over to attend the sale. 

One of them was so struck with the intelligence of 
the boy that '' waited on '' them, he determined to 
take him back to Georgia if money could buy him. So 
he asked my father to put a price on Dick. 

** Dick belongs to my wife, and I know you can't 
get him," was the reply he got. 

Not satisfied, however, with that, he tried my 
mother, who laughed at the idea of selling Dick. 

" Why, that boy," she said, " is worth more to me 
than half the negroes on the plantation. You can't 
buy Dick, sir." 

Even that did not satisfy him. He made one offer 
after another, until the figure reached was twice as 
much as the market value of a full-grown man. Fin- 
ally, the morning they were to start on the return trip 
to Georgia, he said, '' Fll give you three thousand dol- 
lars for Dick." 

My mother looked at him in amazement, and, with 
considerable feeling, said : " Sir, I told you you could 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 41 

not get Dick; now I want to tell you there is not 
enough money in Georgia to buy that boy ! " 

When the guests had gone, Dick slipped out into 
the back yard and danced a jig, cut the pigeon wing, 
and walked on his hands, all to the delight of a group 
of pickaninnies, who looked upon him as a kind of 
wonder. Dick was in fact a pet on the plantation. 
Every white person from the oldest to the youngest 
trusted him implicitly, and every negro either admired 
him or looked upon him with a kind of suspicious awe. 

Six months after the Georgian had made the large 
offer for Dick, the boy was stricken with typhoid 
fever. Despite everything that could be done by the 
best physicians in the county, the fever left Dick with 
drawn limbs, and he never walked again. Ever after, 
he was a cripple. He could use his hands and arms 
a little, but had no control over his legs and feet, and 
sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest. 

Dick's body grew, his head grew, and his mind 
grew, but the power of locomotion he lost completely. 
Now, he could do nothing but sit wherever placed, 
look about him, and talk to any one who came within 
reach of him. 

Though Dick's body was a wreck, his mind seemed 
to be brighter than ever. His unfailing good humor 
and ready wit won for him many kindnesses from his 
fellow slaves. The men carried him from place to 
place on their backs. Though the poor fellow had 



42 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

but little use of his hands and arms, and none what- 
ever of his legs, by persistent effort, he learned after 
a while to move himself about over the house and 
over the yard when the ground was dry and hard. By 
Ufting his feet with his hands as far out in front of 
his body as he could, and then raising his body just a 
little by pressing his knuckles down on the ground, he 
would move himself forward. The process was slow 
and tedious at first, and not without pain, but after 
some months the rapidity and ease with which he 
could get across the yard was amazing. Dick was a 
slave, but in that condition he could do no work, of 
course. His owners, my parents, were glad to make 
life for the poor fellow as happy as possible. 

Somebody was needed to have general oversight of 
the little negroes, half a hundred of them. Dick's in- 
telligence and enforced confinement to the yard seemed 
to point to him as the proper one for that task. So 
he was duly commissioned " boss of the pickaninnies." 
And right well did he discharge the duties of his office. 
The little negroes from ten to fourteen years of age, 
left by their mothers in charge of the babies, needed 
some one of keen eye and ear to see that they did not 
neglect their charges. The little ones of all ages 
from infants of a few weeks to those of nine or ten 
summers needed pretty constant attention. Some one 
was needed to keep the larger ones out of mischief 
and the helpless ones from suffering for lack of food 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 43 

and water. Dick was by common consent made com- 
mander-in-chief of the entire kingdom of little darkies. 

Though constantly on the alert till the mammies 
came in the evening to relieve him of their little ones, 
Dick had plenty of leisure, and became anxious to 
get a peep into that other world that seemed to be 
locked up in the words on the scraps of paper that 
occasionally blew across the yard, and on the printed 
page of the books he saw in the hands of the white 
children. 

It was against the law in our State to teach a slave 
to read or write, and Dick knew it. He had heard it 
from the lips of the white folks. That very fact pos- 
sibly increased his curiostiy to taste of the forbidden 
fruit. 

Sitting one warm day in the shade of a large tree 
in the yard, with a dozen little darkies sleeping around 
him, Dick noticed on a wagon body that hung under 
a shed the names, Gower and Markley. Brushing the 
dust from the hard ground before him, he began mak- 
ing the letters with a sharpened stick. Persistently he 
worked away at the self-appointed task until thor- 
oughly tired out. The next day he repeated his work, 
and kept it up day after day until he succeeded in 
making on the ground a creditable copy of the names, 
though he knew not the sound of a single letter. 

To one of my sisters passing near him, Dick said : 



44 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

" Miss Sallie, please ma'm, will you tell me whut them 
marks is on the wagon body ? " 

** Why, Dick, those are the names of the men who 
made the wagon. Gower and Markley are waggon 
and buggy makers. Their shop is in Greenville, South 
Carolina." 

" Yas, ma'm, thanky, ma'm ; I dun make 'em on 
de groun'." 

The astonished girl looked on the ground in front 
of the cripple and saw a perfectly legible copy of the 
names. Using her riding whip as a pointer, she gave 
him the name of each letter and the sound of each 
according to the rules in Webster's Blue Back Speller, 
the book used possibly in every school in America at 
that time. 

Unwittingly, she gave Dick the very key he so 
much needed. Over and over he repeated the words, 
Gower and Markley, and again and again he sounded 
each letter. Neither the name nor the sound of a 
single letter in those three words escaped him. 

Toward evening, a gust of wind blew a newspaper 
across the yard. Dick had one of the negro children 
to bring it to him, and that proved to be a veritable 
store house of good things for him. There he found 
the friends whose acquaintance he had made on the 
wagon body, and with them some strangers that were 
to him no less interesting. To make their acquaint- 
ance, to learn their names and sounds, was the problem 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 45 

before him. So all the next day he patiently, labor- 
iously, picked out on that paper all the letters found 
in the names on the wagon body, and assiduously 
studied and made others whose names and sounds he 
did not know. 

The third day, another young lady of the house 
crossing the yard gave him the opportunity for which 
he had been watching. Lifting his cap, he said : 

** Miss Jennie, will you please ma'm tell we whut 
this is?" 

My sisters were old enough to know that there 
was a State law against teaching a slave to read. They 
knew it, but somehow not a member of the family re- 
garded Dick as a slave, and neither of the girls thought 
of the law, or cared for it, when the helpless cripple 
asked for assistance. 

So " Miss Jennie " sat down by Dick, and for an 
hour taught him the letters, the words, and their 
meaning. And that hour meant emancipation for 
Dick — emancipation from the bondage of ignorance 
and superstition. Every sentence on that paper he 
spelled out and repeated until it became literally a 
part of him. 

But Dick's greatest joy was to come yet. About 
the time his precious sheet of paper was worn to 
shreds, Ida, the youngest of my six sisters in school, 
was laying aside her Blue Back Speller to begin Mc- 
Guffie's series of readers. Hearing of Dick's unre- 



46 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

mitting efforts to learn to read, she determined to 
make him a present of the book that had given her so 
much trouble. The book was " dog-eared " and torn, 
but to Dick it was a treasure indeed. The columns of 
words to be spelled and the passages to be read were 
to him a delight, but the pictures and stories in the 
back of it were a '' joy forever." 

When my mother learned that Dick could read, she 
said : " Poor fellow ! I do not know how he learned 
to read, but now he shall have access to the best books 
in the library." And that very night Dick became the 
proud possessor of a New Testament, Bunyan's Pil- 
grim's Progress, and a Methodist Hymnal. She knew 
that Dick had a good voice, was fond of singing, and 
would appreciate the hymnal as much as any other 
book. Dick spent the long winter evenings reading to 
the other slaves. Sometimes a score or more of them 
would assemble in his cabin to hear him. And many 
of those grand old hymns written by Watts and the 
Wesleys were sung, if not with professional skill, at 
least with unction. Dick, the leader, " lined out " the 
hymns, and then all sang with genuine pleasure. 

After some months, when Dick had learned to read 
well, my mother put into his hands a copy of Robert 
Burns* Poems, and one of Tennyson's. These were 
her favorites, and very naturally the first she would 
hand to Dick. Tennyson became to him a perennial 
well-spring of happiness. The Charge of the Light 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 47 

Brigade he committed to memory, and never tired of 
repeating it. Many passages of Enoch Arden, too, 
he knew by heart, but he could never do a great deal 
with Burns. The dialect puzzled him, though he 
persevered until he thoroughly mastered and appreci- 
ated "The Cotter's Saturday Night." Tales of ad- 
venture appealed very strongly to him, and Cooper's 
novels he read over and over again. 

I was younger than my sisters who inadvertently 
taught Dick to read. So when I began to wrestle with 
the difficulties in Webster, I found in the cripple slave 
a most willing helper. Over many hard places he 
helped me in the afternoon when I returned discour- 
aged from the school room. And he was so patient, 
so gentle, so sympathetic that my love for him grew 
with every victory over the long, hard words. 

Dick had never studied or even heard of English 
Grammar, of course; so when I reached that point in 
the school curriculum, he and I studied together. Dick 
learned the thirty- four rules in half the time that I 
required. I didn't like that. I didn't see why a negro 
should beat me learning grammar. But he did, and 
I was sore over the fact for a long time, though I 
didn't let Dick know it. Many a sentence we parsed 
together. Sometimes we disagreed in our analysis of 
a sentence, and, consequently, in the parsing of it. 
Ajid that's what piqued me — Dick usually got the best 
of me in our argument over a disputed point. I 



48 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

failed to make allowance for the fact that he was a 
full-grown man in years ; I, but a child. 

We studied Smith's Grammar, and, despite its 
many shortcomings as viewed by present-day gram- 
marians, we both learned to speak with passable cor- 
rectness. 

I remember the fun we had trying to parse John's 
cap. '* John's is a proper noun, masculine gender, 
third person, singular number, possessive case, and 
governed by cap, according to Rule First : * The pos- 
sessive case is governed by the following noun.' " 

I said : '' Dick, I don't understand that. I don't 
see how John is governed by his cap — I'm not gov- 
erned by mine." 

With a tantalizing chuckle, Dick replied : " I un- 
derstand it; you are all the time losing your cap and 
spend half your time looking for it. Yes, you are 
governed by your cap." 

I could not deny the allegation, but was an unwill- 
ing witness, and didn't at all like the smile that played 
over Dick's face. 

In further illustration of the meaning of case, Mr. 
Smith said : " If we say of a horse, he is fat, he is 
in a good case; if lean, he is in a bad case." This we 
both accepted without protest; we knew horses, and 
thought we understood perfectly. 

One Friday afternoon, the teacher said to my class : 
" Now, I want each of you to bring me Monday 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 49 

morning a composition. Write on the subject of 
Perseverance." That seemed to me the culmination 
of all my troubles. I knew nothing of perseverance, 
and had no idea what she meant by " composition." 
But to my friend who never failed me I went as soon 
as I got home. 

Dick assured me that we two could manage the 
difficulty, and very soon with slate and pencil we were 
settled down to business. One sentence after another 
was dictated to me till nearly the whole of one side 
of my slate was filled. I amused the composer very 
much, I remember, by saying: " Hold on, Dick; you 
are making it too good. Don't do that; if you do, 
Miss Pendle will know I didn't write it." 

The big-hearted fellow laughed heartily at the 
thought of its being too good. However, with the 
expenditure of much energy on my part, the work 
was continued until both sides of my slate were filled. 
Then said my co-laborer in a manner that I can 
never forget : " Now, Bubber, don't you think it 
would be wrong to take that to your teacher? Miss 
Pendle might not know I helped you, but, anyhow, 
would it be right to fool her? I think you better rub 
out everything on your slate and go over yonder under 
that tree and write it yourself. You'll feel better about 
it, and you won't be afraid to look your teacher right 
in the eye." 

Child as I was, I felt the force of his plea and did 



50 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

as he suggested. Candor compells me to confess, 
however, that down to this good day, after fifty years, 
I have a distinct recollection of trying to reproduce 
Dick's sentences as he had framed them. But the les- 
son was a good one, and did credit to the head and 
heart of my colored teacher, — Richard Harris was my 
teacher in the best and truest sense. 

After the Civil War, the negroes were scattered 
** to the four winds." They had to change homes in 
order to realize that they were really and truly free. 
My mother moved to a neighboring town to get school 
facilities. Dick found a home with Pleasant Watts, a 
kind-hearted colored man who had a large family and 
needed some one to look after his younger children. 

After I had finished my college course, it became 
necessary for me to spend one winter on the plantation. 
Learning that Dick was in the home of Watts, just 
seven miles away, I sent for him. My object was to 
make him perfectly comfortable and to have the benefit 
of his company in the long winter evenings I was shut 
up in my bachelor quarters. Dick read to me papers, 
magazines, and books, and the evenings passed most 
pleasantly. He had a mellifluous voice and perfectly 
modulated. How the crippled, unassisted country 
negro could so perfectly modulate his voice and so 
beautifully and clearly express the meaning of the sen- 
tences he read, I could never understand. His sense 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 51 

of humor was very fine and his power of interpreta- 
tion was simply marvelous. 

Though the unfortunate fellow could get his hands 
on but few books and papers, he read these few so 
thoroughly that he kept pretty well posted and knew 
much more than the average white man of questions 
of public interest. 

Unlike most men of his race, Dick had decided 
views on all questions that concerned the conduct, 
character, and possibilities of the negro, and did not 
hesitate to express them freely. 

Richard Harris died at the age of fifty, and was 
buried in a box specially constructed for him, — his 
legs were never straightened. He had a brown skin, 
but a golden heart, and, I believe, sleeps the sleep of 
the righteous. 



CHAPTER III 

CHRISTMAS AND THE MOVING PICTURE 

I AM thinking of a time in the long ago, when to 
me Santa Claus was a great reaUty. The bells, the 
reindeer, the sled were no dream. My faith in their 
existence was as intense as my childish nature could 
make it. And now at the hour of midnight — for this 
is Christmas Eve — when everything is quiet save the 
occasional roar of a cannon cracker thrown by some 
boy who has grown beyond the age of watchful wait- 
ing for Santa Claus, now while millions of precious 
eyes are hard to keep closed and as many millions 
more are closing despite all efforts to keep them open, 
now I wish to register a protest against the cruelty of 
any man or woman who would, purposely or inad- 
vertently, tear this precious idol from the heart of an 
innocent, happy child. 

Yes, I am thinking of the long ago, when I slept in 
the trundlebed from which I could see so well in the 
glow of the dying embers of the spacious fireplace, 
and could see so plainly the horns and the hoofs of 
the reindeer as they came cautiously down the chim- 
ney. O, the imagination of little children when deeply, 
vitally interested! And the joy of anticipation that 
can never be equalled in maturer years. 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 53 

I am thinking, too, of the partner of my childish 
joys. My little sister Ellen — I called her " Rat," but 
to all the others she was " the baby " — was as anxious 
to see " Old Sandy " as I was, but those dear, loving 
eyes, two years younger than mine, could not stand 
the strain so long, and closed in sleep, a smiling sleep, 
provokingly soon, and, notwithstanding her oft-re- 
peated promise, " Til stay wake wid 00' Bud-John, 
and watch for Old Sandy," she left me to do the 
watching all by myself. 

I am thinking of her tonight, and see her not as 
she is, a thoughtful, sympathetic grandmother, and at 
this very moment, perhaps, playing the role of Santa 
Claus, but as the precious, gentle, clinging, loving 
little sister whose gentleness and sweetness meant so 
much in its restraining influence over the rough, boy- 
ish, sometimes brutal, nature of her brother. O what 
a flood of precious memories ! They stir my soul 
while the clock strikes twelve and the cannon crackers 
on the street cease firing one by one. 

Yes, thank God for these memories that make life 
worth living and the past, the buried past, a part of 
our very selves. I see my little sister now with both 
hands raised and hear the very intonations of her 
baby-voice when she pleaded, " O, Bud-John, don't 
do that ! " I can see now her little lips quiver and the 
big tear steal out on her long eyelashes. She was 
pleading for the kittens. I was tying their tails to- 



54 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

gether to make them fight. She didn't say, " I'll tell 
mama." Oh, no; she knew what that meant. It 
would bring to her brother an unpleasant association 
with mother's slipper. More than once, she had shed 
tears because of the music produced by that associa- 
tion, and she would not by a word jeopardize the 
pantaloons of her cruel brother. But, like others of 
her sex of maturer years, she resorted to tears and to 
gentle pleading : 

" O, please, Bud-John, don't do that ; don't hurt 
my kitty." 

And, like many another bigger boy, her brother, 
yielding to the pressure, loosed the cats, kissed away 
the sister's tears, and said : " Now, run along, like a 
sweet girl." Did she go? Not on your life. Not 
until the cats were out of reach. And they lost no 
time, you may be sure. 

When they were safe beyond the barn or hid away 
in the woodhouse and no longer in immediate danger 
of Bud-John and his dog, she slyly tapped her brother 
on the cheek and said coquettishly, " Oo bad old boy." 

But these were war times, and Santa Claus is won- 
derfully handicapped in war times, as the children of 
Belgium so well know. But mother said he'd come, 
and he did. He never failed us. The Yankees both- 
ered him, mother said, and he couldn't get rich, fine 
candy and beautiful dolls as he wished to do. So he 
did the next best thing : he brought us candy made of 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 55 

sorghum syrup and rag dolls that were as beautiful 
as deft, loving fingers could make them. The wagon 
painted red and with iron wheels he could not bring. 
Mother said he tried very hard, but couldn't. 

My disappointment was very great. I wanted to 
hitch Jack and Peter, two negro boys to the wagon 
and have them pull it, while little sister did the riding 
and I did the driving. Mother assured me that Old 
Santa would do better in the future, but that for the 
present I must be content with the wagon she would 
have Line' Essick make for me. I promised. The 
wagon was made, and right well did it serve its 
purpose. 

Around the faithful black man I danced in perfect 
glee while he made and ironed the body. And when 
we went off to the " river bottom" to get the wheels, 
I was happiness personified. Unc' Essick carried me 
on his back, and, with my childish fingers run into his 
kinky hair to make my position more secure, I plied 
him with many a question until we reached the river 
swamp. 

There in that body of splendid timber on Little 
River, just above the Premium bottom, we selected 
the black gum tree from which were to be sawed the 
wheels for my wagon. In the one-horse wagon Tony 
had brought the long, cross-cut saw with which he 
and Unc' Essick soon cut off the wheels from the 
black gum after it had been felled. From this round 
tree blocks two inches thick were sawed. In the 



56 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

centre holes were bored, and we had wheels as nearly- 
perfect as untrained, unskilled hands could make them. 
And the joy and happiness I got out of that wagon 
only the country boy who has had one of his own can 
ever know. 

I didn't care for the painted wagon any more. 
" Old Sandy " might keep his old red puny wagon so 
far as I was concerned. I loved the heavy, hard 
timber that was in the running-gear of my own, and 
the solid, round wheels that made it to me " a thing 
of beauty and a joy forever." I hitched Jack and 
Pete to it for a fact drove them with cotton lines 
my mother made for me — the softest and prettiest I 
ever saw. I cracked over the backs, and sometimes on 
the backs, of my two-legged horses a whip that Uncle 
Griffin, the wagoner, platted for me, while they kicked 
and reared and snorted like real horses, giving infinite 
delight to *' de baby," the little queen who rode in 
the luxurious chariot. 

The Christmas holidays were gone before I got my 
wagon completed, but, though the candy was all gone 
and the rag dolls were considerably the worse for 
wear, when that wagon was finished it brought with it 
joy unspeakable. We had Christmas all the time. 

But little children, like larger people, want a change. 
So my two horses. Jack and Peter, suggested that we 
hitch two calves to the wagon. We did it, selecting 
two strong, burly fellows we had already been accus- 
tomed to riding to and from the pasture. 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 57 

The calves were unruly and protested against such 
treatment, but Unc' Griffin made us a little yoke and 
bows (he was just enough of a blacksmith to do the 
ironing also), and we continued the fight until we 
broke them in and could drive them anywhere. 

Mother had no objection to our working the calves, 
but it certainly did spoil baby's fun. For mother 
said : " Mark you, young man, don't put little sister 
in that wagon while you have the calves hitched to it." 
I said " yas 'um," and the baby looked sad. The 
children didn't know the danger, but wise, prudent 
mother did. 

When mother meant to be quite positive, she some- 
times addressed me as *' young man." So, I looked 
into her eye and saw that that bill had passed its third 
reading and was as unchangeable as the law of the 
Medes and Persians. And " the baby " got to ride no 
more, except when Jack and Pete put their own necks 
under the yoke and gave her a dash or two across the 
yard. Their jumping and kicking were just as amusing 
as the antics of Charley Chaplin are to the city child 
today. 

But, while the baby could not ride now, there was 
one thing we could do — we could ride ourselves, tak- 
ing turn about. A neighbor boy, too, and kinsman, 
was frequently with us, entering heartily into our 
sports. There were so many calves in that pasture 
that when one pair was so well broken that they 
ceased to be exciting, we brought out another. One 



58 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

morning after a rain, when we had in harness a pair 
of specially frisky little bulls, we offered the seat of 
honor to our visitor from the neighboring plantation. 

George seated himself with that deliberate, de- 
termined air that has characterized him ever since, 
and gave the signal to proceed. We did. When I 
came down on the backs of the cattle with that platted 
whip, those little bulls thought a cyclone had struck 
them. Their heads were turned down a long red hill. 
What they did in the way of running, bawling, and 
kicking was a plenty. And what our guest did in the 
way of flying was also a plenty. When I see the 
Judge now, presiding over a court in all his dignity, I 
see two pictures, the one before me and that other 
fifty years ago — I see a head in the mud, two heels in 
the air, two arms and hands clutching at anything and 
everything, and I smell sulphur. 

Did he cuss? Well now, reader, that's been more 
than fifty years ago ; don't ask me to strain my memory. 
Did he want to fight? Now, I left about that time. 
I was peeping from behind the bam, and down to this 
good day I can't think of the incident without a good, 
hearty laugh. The city boy of today has his moving 
picture sfiow. I had mine fifty years ago and more. 



CHAPTER IV 

FIRST TRADING EXPEDITION 

First and last, every calf in that pasture was 
" tried out." Some of them were found to be tame 
and lifeless; others were full of spirit, and tried our 
mettle as we tried theirs. 

Finally, we settled down on two that were well 
matched in size, strength, and gait, and with spirit 
enough to keep us constantly on the qui vive. More 
than once they ran away with us and tore things to 
pieces, but that just whetted our appetite for other 
tests of strength. 

When we had finally chosen among the little steers, 
we found great pleasure in raking the ticks off the 
pair selected and in giving them extra food, so 
that they might grow more rapidly. In this we were 
not disappointed. The fact that we curried them so 
persistently and fed them so regularly, gave them a 
start which ended in their developing into a pair of 
magnificent animals. 

One was white with red spots, and the other was 
black with white spots. We named them Buck and 
Dick. Buck was our leader, and as game an ox as 
ever responded to the crack of a whip. When full 



6o ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

grown, what a splendid picture he made. And what 
a powerful animal. Many a time I saw him pulled 
to his knees, and occasionally saw him overloaded, but 
never did I see him fail to respond to a call for 
business. The very persistence of that calf was an 
object lesson to the proud boy who called him his 
own. 

The calves grew rapidly, much more rapidly, of 
course, than did their drivers. The little yoke that 
Uncle Griffin first made for us was scarcely larger 
than our legs at the ankle, and, one day, to our great 
discomfort, broke at the centre. At first we were 
badly upset, but our old friend, the wagoner-black- 
smith, came to our rescue in this our time of dire need, 
and very soon had us a larger, stronger, and prettier 
one. 

This one lasted six months, but yielding, at last, to 
the increasing strength of the steers, parted in the 
middle as the other had done. But for this emergency 
we were prepared. Exploring one day in a lumber 
house, Jack and I ran across a splendid yoke my 
father had thrown in there a few years before, when 
he had discarded the use of oxen on the plantation. 

Buck and Dick, now well grown, were no longer 
amusing, but became to us a source of no little pleasure 
and pride. We found that they and we were getting 
to be considerable factors in the promotion of farm 
work. When the mules were busy with the plowing, 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 6i 

we did the " milling," hauled the wood — well, the 
oximobile was constantly on the go. 

Searching among the abandoned and broken farm 
implements in the lumber house that yielded us the 
yoke. Jack and I found the front part of a two-horse 
wagon, axle, wheels, hounds, bolster, and tongue. That 
was a great find. It was speedily rigged up and 
greased, and then we saw there was but one thing 
lacking — there was no body for the cart. 

For a time this new problem was somewhat per- 
plexing, but we had so often been forced to rely upon 
our own resources that we determined to find a way 
out of this trouble. We had both learned the use of 
carpenters' tools. So we set to work determined to 
make a frame for our cart. With hammer and chisel 
and saw, we made the frame with standards of regu- 
lation size and height. It was no fine piece of work. 
There was nothing beautiful about it. Indeed, it was 
rough and uneven, but the making of it brought out 
the best that was in the boys, and therein lay its worth. 

It represented sweat, mashed and bleeding fingers, 
tears, and — some ugly words ; ugly words when Jack's 
hammer flew off the handle and hit me on the nose, 
bringing the blood. But the work done was a triumph. 
We had won. We could now haul wood, rails, or 
anything that did not require a body or " bed." 

My mother was not a little gratified when she saw 
the persistency with which I worked at that job. 



62 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

Anxious always to encourage her children in earnest, 
honest effort, she said to me : 

" My son, you have done well ; you shall have a 
body for your cart. Go up to Cunningham's shop and 
ascertain what they will charge to make you one." 

Within a week we had a nice, neat, poplar body 
for our cart, and were ready to haul anything. The 
steers were fat and strong and docile, and the boys 
were as happy as a Kentuckian driving his thorough- 
breds. 

One lovely day in the spring, Mother asked if I 
thought Jack and I could take some peas to '' town " 
and sell them. 

I assured her that we could and was anxious to 
make the trip. 

" We need some salt," she said ; " and I would like 
so much to get some coffee." 

My mother, like thousands of other Southern gen- 
tlewomen, had been drinking coffee made of parched 
wheat, dried potatoes, and acorns. No wonder she 
wanted to taste once more the genuine article. The 
reader may laugh at the idea of using such things as 
substitutes for pure Java. Ask your father about it ; 
if bom in the South and living on a plantation in those 
dark days, he knows the trials through which we 
passed. 

That was in 1866. My father had died in '64. The 
war had ceased. The Confederate soldiers, those that 
survived that fearful cataclysm, had returned, some 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 63 

of them maimed but magnificent, to their broken, deso- 
lated homes. They were freed from the dust and 
danger of mortal combat to be shrouded by the dark- 
ness of the Reconstruction period. Only those who 
lived through that period can have any proper con- 
ception of it. And only those who lived through the 
last days of the great Civil War can ever know the 
self-denial and personal sacrifices many were called 
upon to make. 

We made the trip to " town,'* Abbeville — ^Jack and 
I — and carried five bushels of peas to trade for salt 
and coifee. Accustomed to go with us to the mill, 
Dick, the cripple, asked Mother's permission to accom- 
pany us on our first trading expedition. Jack and I, a 
little doubtful as to our ability to pull off the trading 
stunt just right, were glad to have Dick with us. 
Though he could not walk, he was unusually clear- 
headed, and could advise us in case of emergency. 

Things went well, however. We had no trouble in 
swapping our peas for salt and coffee. 

When we left home. Mother placed in the cart a 
few dozen eggs, three pounds of butter, and two bot- 
tles of pepper pickles. She had grown the pepper, 
and made the vinegar from apple cider, and, like most 
boys when they think of their mother's good things, 
Fm sure I have seldom since then tasted pickles half 
so fine. " Sell all these things if you can," she said, 
" and after you get the salt and coffee, you may buy a 
dime's worth of candy." 



64 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

I hadn't seen or tasted real " store candy *' since 
the War began. The very thought of it made me 
supremely happy. 

We found ready sale for everything but the pickles. 
For these there seemed to be no market. After I had 
tramped about considerably, trying to persuade some- 
body that the pickles were fine, one of the merchants 
said to me : 

" Bub, I don't think I can handle your pickles, but 
you bought the salt and coffee from me, so I'll give 
you ten cent's worth of stick candy for one bottle. 
What do you say ? " 

I struck that bargain instanter. 

On the way to town, I had walked much of the 
way in order to throw stones at the birds. I am sorry 
that I was not less cruel than the average boy. The 
road was dusty, I was barefooted, and, when we 
reached Abbeville, my bare feet were by no means as 
clean as they might have been. 

Dick remained in the cart while Jack and I did 
the shopping. When our last purchases were made, 
the pretty candy was stored away in my pants pocket, 
the boy's receptacle for everything, and our faces were 
turned homeward. 

As we went from the store to the cart, a well- 
dressed boy, about my size, with a smile of derision, 
called the attention of three of four companions to 
my feet, and possibly to my coarse clothes and jeans 
cap my mother had made for me. I was stung to the 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 65 

quick. I clenched my fist and felt like lighting on 
that fellow then and there, but had heard of policemen 
and a calaboose, and concluded it were better to leave 
the settlement of that affair to another day. Besides, 
I reasoned it would not be prudent to tackle him on 
his own ground when he was backed by so many of 
his friends. So I bit my lips and got into the cart, 
resolving that if ever I met that boy again I would 
spoil that pretty coat for him. If ever Fve seen him 
since then, I didn't recognize him. 

We were hungry as wolves, and, when well out of 
town, turned our attention to the lunch Mother had 
prepared for us, and never did food taste sweeter to 
hungry boys. 

I gave each of the negroes a stick of candy, took 
one myself, and carefully wrapped the remaining 
pieces for Mother and the sisters. The delicious fried 
chicken, the bottle of pepper pickles, and the candy 
gave us a feast royal, while the cattle had their way. 

The return trip was uneventful until we reached 
Little's Hill, just three miles from home. That was a 
noted hill, on which many a team had stalled and 
many an ugly oath been sworn. It was not long, but 
very steep and very rough. 

When we reached the foot of the hill, Jack and I 
got out, not because it was necessary, but that the load 
might be somewhat lighter and the pull easier for the 
steers. Jack cracked his whip, and the oxen started 
up the hill with a rush. 



66 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

We had not noticed that the chain which fastened 
the front end of the body to the tongue of the cart 
had worked loose. When about half the way up the 
hill, the front end of the body flew up, the rear end 
went down, and the sack of salt, the coffee, and Dick 
all tumbled out in a heap among the rocks. 

With no little difficulty. Jack and I succeeded in 
extricating Dick from beneath the sack of salt. The f 
good-natured fellow was laughing, and though con- 
siderably skinned and bruised, was not seriously hurt. 

But this was an emergency for which we were not 
wholly prepared. Two ten-year-old boys could not 
easily handle a sack of salt, nor could we lift Dick || 
into the cart. " 

We waited a half-hour, hoping that some man; 
might come along and help us reload. Finally, I 
proposed that Jack and I should go home with the 
coffee, and let one of the " hands " come back with 
the one-horse wagon for Dick and the salt. Dick 
demurred. He suggested that we roll the salt down 
to the foot of the hill, said he would crawl down him- 
self, and by fastening the body securely in front and 
putting the ends of three or four rails on the rear end 
of the cart, we might be able to roll the sack of salt 
up to its place, and, with some assistance from us, he 
thought he could crawl and roll up himself. 

Something had to be done. The sun was sinking 
behind the hill, and to us it appeared to be later than 
it really was. So we made the attempt, and, after 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 67 

much tugging and rolling and pulling and sweating, 
we won out. 

We drove in home just as the sun was setting. I 
think I must have been as proud of my possessions 
and as proud of my day's work as Mr. Carnegie was 
of his first million. I made a detailed report of the 
business transactions and counted out the change to 
Mother. When I finished, she kissed me on the cheek 
and said : ** Mama's little man ; God bless you, my 
son." 

And I was happy. 

During supper and after supper the entire day was 
lived over again. I could scarcely eat for talking. 
When we left the dining room, my sisters asked ques- 
tions, and I continued to talk. I told them everything 
except that I killed a bluebird with a rock. They 
loved birds, and I remembered that I had been licked 
once upon a time for throwing at them. 

Mother listened calmly, thoughtfully, and, it seemed 
to me, seriously, to everything I said. When I reached 
the episode at Little's Hill, she broke into a hearty 
laugh. Then I told about the boy with the fluffy 
shirt front, pretty red cravat, and nice hat making 
sport of my bare feet and jeans cap. 

My sisters were indignant. One of them stood 
up and stamped her foot and said: " If I had that 
rascal, I'd — " Mother stopped her. The baby cried. 
The dear child could not understand why any boy 



68 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

could be mean enough to make fun of her " Bud- 
John." 

" Mama, I'll kill that boy some day," I said. 

" My son, my son, you must not say that ; you 
must not have such wicked thoughts. That's wrong, 
it's ugly, it's sinful. That boy didn't hurt you, my 
son; he only hurt himself. You forget it just as soon 
as you can. You may have misjudged him. Don't 
think of it any more." 

That night my mother shook me. When I awoke, 
I was in a tremble. 

" What's the matter, son ? " she said. 

" Mama, that boy called me a liar, and I busted 
his nose." 

" Oh, no, my son, he didn't ; it's only a dream, a 
bad dream. I'm glad it's just a dream — go to sleep." 
And she put her head on my pillow until I slept and 
smiled and dreamed of Dick and the incident at Little's 
Hill. 

The next day Dick and Jack and I were planning 
for another trip to '' town " pretty soon. When we 
had agreed upon the plan to be submitted by me to 
Mother, Jack brought out the steers to curry them. 

I wanted some real good fun that morning. So 
when Jack rode up on Buck, urging him along with 
his cloth cap, I said banteringly : 

" I bet you can't ride Buck with a spur." 

" I bet I kin," he said. 

I ran into the house and brought out a rusty old 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 69 

spur I had found in the " lumber room/' The wheel 
was so clogged with rust that it would not turn. All 
the long teeth but two or three had broken out, and 
one of these stood straight out an eighth of an inch. 
It was long and sharp and ugly. 

" You jess buckle dat on my foot, en I'll show you 
I kin ride 'im wid a spur." 

The patient ox was very still and quiet while I 
buckled the spur on Jack's bare foot. 

" Now, Jack, you will have to put it in him good 
and strong if you want to wake him up." 

" Oh, I'll wake 'im up." 

I stepped back, and by way of encouragement, 
pulled the foot away from the side of the ox. Freeing 
it, with a shove, I said, " Put it to him ! " 

He did. 

Buck's head and tail went up, there was a bawl 
and a twist, the steer's body bent into a bow, he 
went up into the air and then came down with all four 
feet together. The rider went over the fence clear 
light and came down on his head, while Buck went 
out through the gate with a snort and a kick, and, with 
tail in the air, tore down toward the pasture where the 
other cattle were. 

This sudden commotion — Buck's bucking and 
snorting — startled his yoke-fellow, and he tore off 
through another gate, while two mules lazily biting at 
the lot fence ran snorting around the barn. Buck ran 
over an old sow and pigs in the lane, the pigs squealed. 



70 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

the sow grunted, startled chickens cackled and flew in 
every direction, while picaninnies screamed, some in 
fright, others with pure delight. Oh, that was a circus ! 
But it didn't last long enough. 

I fell over on the ground to laugh. I just couldn't 
do justice to that show while standing up. When I 
got up, after laughing till my side hurt, I saw Jack 
turning round and apparently looking for something 
at his feet. 

" What's the matter, Jack? " I asked. 

" Nuttin' ; I des lookin' fur dat toof what drap 
out my mout — 'fo' Gawd, dat cow laken kill me." 

Mother heard the commotion, and naturally came 
to the door to investigate. As soon as her voice could 
be heard, she said : 

" My son, what in the world does all this mean ? " 

I told her, told her the truth, the whole truth, and, 
after fifty years, I am persuaded, nothing but the truth. 

Mother was Irish, and her son knew it. She just 
couldn't help laughing. Controlling herself with a 
powerful effort, she said : 

** My son, my son, my son ! " 

But I saw that smile and knew I was safe. 
• In the pasture was a beautiful Durham bull, just 
the size of our steers. The animal was not vicious, 
but became very mischievous. With his horns he 
threw down the fences, and, now and then, led the 
cattle into the crops. 

The negroes reported that they could not keep the 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 71 

cows out of the com, and Lindsay proposed that we 
break the bull to the yoke, and thus keep him out of 
mischief. 

I thought that promised more fun, and persuaded 
Mother to let us try the experiment, two of the negro 
men having promised to help us handle the bull. We 
had considerable trouble in catching the animal, but 
succeeded finally in drawing his head up to a tree, to 
which we tied him hard and fast. Then we drove 
Buck up to his side and yoked them together. Lindsay 
suggested that we tie their tails together to keep them 
from '* turning the yoke." Now let the youthful 
reader ask his father what " turning the yoke " means. 

When their tails were platted and tied together 
securely, the word was given and the bull's head freed 
from the tree. He was a very powerful animal and 
now thoroughly mad. 

Freed from the tree, he made one vicious lunge 
and burst his end of the yoke into splinters. 

Buck, not accustomed to that kind of procedure, 
must have concluded that we meant to try the spur on 
him again. Badly frightened, he made for the gate, 
while the bull started in the other direction. But 
there was a temporary halt. Their tails were securely 
tied, and it became a question as to whose tail would 
prove the stronger. 

The infuriated bull was disposed to wreak ven- 
geance on Buck and fight the thing to a finish, but for 
this old Buck was wholly unwilling ; indeed, he seemed 



72 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

determined to keep as far from him as possible the 
end of the bull that carried horns on it. 

For a very short interval there was a straining and 
stretching of hair, a cracking of tail joints, and then a 
parting of the beasts. When the dust had cleared 
away and the wild animals rounded up again, we found 
that Buck's tail was broken in three places and the 
bull's was minus hair. 



CHAPTER V 

THE EEL AND THE SKELETON 

I THINK it was old Ben Johnson who said : " When 
you see three boys together, get you a stick : they need 
flogging for what they have done, for what they are 
doing, or for what they are planning to do." 

A boy just my age, living on an adjoining planta- 
tion, was frequently with Jack and me in our escapades, 
and often when I think of the fun we had, I think of 
Dr. Johnson's remark. 

One day after a rain, we concluded that we would 
go fishing in a creek about a mile from home. It was 
a tributary to Little River, and was well stocked with 
cat-fish and eels. We found the creek somewhat 
swollen, and against a large tree which had fallen 
across the stream and was only partially submerged 
was banked a considerable quantity of foam and 
trash. Our experience had taught us that if fish 
would bite anywhere, we would find them there. Bait- 
ing our hooks well and stuffing the remaining worms 
into our pants pockets, we walked out on that tree, 
Jack first, I next, and George after me. 

George's hook was immediately taken by an eel 
eighteen inches long. At first, it looked as if George 



74 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

would be jerked over into the water, but he pulled 
manfully, and at last succeeded in bringing the eel to 
the top of the water and on the log. He grasped the 
slick, slimy thing with both hands and started toward 
the bank of the creek with it. But the eel slipped 
through his hands as fast as he could catch fresh 
hold on him, and in the tussle freed his mouth from 
the hook. Seeing that he would lose his snake-like 
fish before he could reach the land, George quickly 
nailed it with his teeth, carried it, wriggling and 
twisting about his head and face, fifty feet out in the 
bottom, then stamped it to death in the plowed ground. 
George had all the fish he wanted now, and he spent 
the balance of the evening trying to clean his mouth. 

Monday at school I had fun telling the boys about 
George's frolic with the eel — about the new " tooth 
hold " and how it worked, and how he spent the re- 
mainder of the day trying to clean his teeth. I had 
carried an old tooth-brush to school in my pocket, 
and tried to present that to him in behalf of the entire 
school to be preserved for special use on fishing ex- 
cursions. More than once that day I had to dodge 
behind the school house to keep out of the way of 
George's fist. 

George was a splendid fellow — every inch a man. 
He would scrap with us any time and on short notice, 
but was never much on a foot race. Only once was 
he ever accused of exceeding the speed limit. And 
that came about in this way: 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 75 

In 1864, a negro was hanged about six miles from 
the Little Mountain school. He was not lynched, but 
legally executed. Just why he was hanged way out 
there so far from the county seat, I have never known. 
In the neighborhood lived a quaint, queer old doctor. 

In some way, the old physician got possession of 
the corpse. About a half-mile from the school build- 
ing was a body of young pines, possibly two acres in 
area. The saplings ranged from two to six inches in 
diameter and from twelve to twenty feet in height. 
They were very thick, making an ideal place for hid- 
ing. One day we boys, about a dozen of us, at the 
noon recess (usually two hours long) went foraging 
for apples. We were quite, successful that day. Every 
one of us had not only his pants pockets, but his 
loose blouse, stuffed with the beautiful, odoriferous, 
red June apples. 

We knew if we carried them to the school house, 
we would have to give an account of ourselves — we'd 
have to tell where we got them. That we were not 
.just then prepared to do. So we concluded to go into 
the pines, where nobody could see us, and have us one 
good, satisfactory, perfect and complete bait of mellow 
June apples. 

When we were near the centre of the pine thicket, 
being pretty well bunched, some one cried out : 
"Lawdy, boys, looker there ! " 
Dr. Stiefer had carried his negro into that thicket, 



76 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

boiled all the flesh off his bones, and mounted the 
skeleton. 

We were right on it before any of us saw it. When 
we did see it, the reader may be sure that it was not 
many seconds before- that negro's bones had the whole 
field to themselves. Apples flew in every direction. 
There was no outcry — just a scramble among the pine 
needles, one thud after another, a whine or half-cry, a 
grunt, a fall, an occasional, *'0 Lawdy, wait for me ! " 
and then, after thirty seconds, the emerging from the 
pines of a dozen half -clad, bruised, bleeding, sniffling, 
frightened boys. It was ever afterwards contended 
that George, who was not until then noted for his 
sprinting stunts, was the first to emerge from the 
pines. 

A few years ago I met a grey-bearded gentleman 
who shared that thrilling experience with us. Indeed, 
he was a big-hearted sharer of all the joys and sorrows 
of our school days at Little Mountain school. 

After living over much of the dear departed past, 
I said to him : 

" Joe, do you remember our experience with the 
June apples and the skeleton ? " 

" Remember it ? I can see that nigger now, and 
hear George grunt. Great Lord ! didn't old George 
paw up the earth that day? " 

" Now, Joe, tell me honest, what clothes did you 
have on when you got out of those pines? " 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION ^^ 

" Well, John, Fll tell you, to the best of my recol- 
lection, I had on just one sock and a collar." 

" Ah, Joe, old boy, that won't do — ^you know as 
well as I know that you never wore collars in your 
life till you were nearly grown, and they were paper 
collars, and you gave ten cents a box for 'em/' 

The dear fellow uttered a characteristic chuckle 
that carried me back over a half century to a day that 
is gone; to a day that was full of sunshine and shad- 
ows — a day that links the glories of the ante-bellum 
past with the joys and sorrows of the present. 



CHAPTER VI 

THE LITTLE MOUNTAIN SCHOOL 

That was a great school — great in more respects 
than one. It was great in purpose, great in discipline, 
and great in achivement when we consider the utter 
absence of facilities. 

The teacher was a young lady of doubtful or ques- 
tionable age (I never use the words, *' old maid"); 
and she didn't mind lickin' a fellow at all. Indeed, 
she seemed rather to enjoy it. I have seen her tip-toe 
while putting the timber on Gus Williams, and with 
every lick of the seasoned birch she brought the dust 
from his coat. In the winter Gus didn't mind it ; but 
in the summer, when he was thinly clad, she " got his 
goat." 

Miss Pendle had one very great weakness. She 
licked Gus because she didn't like him ; and she didn't 
lick me because she did like me. I was just as mis- 
chievous as Gus, but somehow she didn't see my 
mischief. But there was this difference, I must ad- 
mit: I did study some; Gus, none at all. Gus and I 
were devoted friends. He knew I was as mischievous 
as he was, and couldn't understand how it was that I 
escaped the birch when he got it every day. One day, 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 79 

at recess, he said to the teacher : ** Mis Pendulum, if 
you'll give John ten good licks like you put on me, 
you may give me one hundred. I want to see old John 
bounce one time." 

The first morning of school, when we entered the 
door, we saw three long switches standing in the cor- 
ner behind the teacher's table. That was a challenge 
that was promptly accepted by more than one boy 
among us. But *' Miss Pendulum," as Gus called her, 
went in to win, and she did win. She was Irish to 
the core, and showed it without any hesitation. 

How well I remember the first day I trotted off 
from home to school ! There were five of us, I the 
youngest. On my back I carried a jeans satchel, 
made by my mother, and in it was one book — Web- 
ster's Blue Back Speller. And just here I want to doff 
my hat to that old speller. It's a long shot better book 
than some people think it is. If Noah Webster had just 
put those pictures in the first part of the book instead 
of at the close of it, he would have had the greatest 
speller of all the ages. (Now laugh, you blasted cox- 
combs who think you carry in your cocoes all the 
wisdom of the twentieth century! Laugh! as much 
as you please. The fools are not all dead yet.) 

Somehow, Miss Pendle succeeded in teaching us 
the names of all the letters. There were four of us in 
class — MolUe, Annie, George, and John. Mollie was 
George's sister; Annie was my sweetheart. I don't 
know that I ever would have learned those letters had 



8o ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

I not seen that Annie was learning them, and I knew 
that I had to, in order to stay in class with her. 

I had no desire to stand *' head " — I only wanted 
to be next to Annie. If Annie was head, I was per- 
fectly happy in second place; if Annie was next to 
" foot," I was more than willing to stand at the lower 
end of the class. A single smile from Annie was 
worth more to me than a thousand words of com- 
mendation from my teacher. 

Somehow, we learned those letters — first, the small 
ones, then the capitals. That done, we were allowed 
to begin to spell, and this is what we had : 





ab 


ba 




eb 


ca 




ib 


da 




ob 


la 


Then, 


cat 
rat 
mat 
fat 




And then, 


rock 
mock 
sock 
tock 





With such exercises as these, we moved along 
rather lively till we reached baker. That had been the 
goal toward which our faces were set. After that, 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 8i 

came ambition and long columns of words ending in 
tion and sion. 

The succeeding pages were made more difficult, 
until we came to incomprehensibility. And right 
there, I'm free to confess, I've been ever since. 

I shall never forget when the first day we were 
called by the teacher to " say your lesson." Standing 
around her, she said, pointing with her pencil to the 
first letter, " Johnnie, what's that? " 

I said, " I don't know, m'm." 

" That's a/' 

" Yas, m'm." 

** But you say a." 

I said " a." 

And so the lesson proceeded until Miss Pendle 
thought she had kept us long enough. Then she said, 
" Now, you children sit down and study your lesson." 
We sat down, but she was badly off if she thought I 
was studying about those crooked characters. I was 
too busy thinking about Annie. 

The rule of the teacher was that we had to have 
our book before our eyes all the time. I held my book 
in its place all right, but Annie sat diagonally across 
the room from me, thus enabling me to fool the teacher 
easily. 

After a while, sitting on that backless seat, swing- 
ing my feet that could not reach the floor, I got very 
tired. Turning cautiously the leaves of my speller, I 
came to the pictures near the back. 



82 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

The first appealed strongly to me. A boy stealing 
apples was caught in the very act — caught in the tree 
by the owner of the orchard. I wondered why the 
silly-looking fellow didn't tumble out of that tree and 
try a foot-race with the old gentleman. He looked as 
if he might be fleet enough to outrun the farmer. 

The milkmaid with the spilled piggin of milk 
amused me greatly, though deep down in my heart I 
resented the unkindness of the boys who tied the long 
grass across the path. 

When I came to the mastiffs about to fight, I was 
delighted beyond measure. They were splendid look- 
ing animals and, I thought, ought to make a battle 
royal. I forgot where I was, forgot Annie for a 
moment, forgot everything but the dogs, and, in my 
eagerness to see them fight, yelled out : " Sick 'im, 
Tige ! " 

I was startled by the sound of my own voice. The 
boys and girls around me looked at me in amazement, 
some laughing out. 

" Come here to me, sir ! " commanded the teacher, 
and her voice cracked like a whip. 

I walked up with fear and trembling, like a crim- 
inal to the electric chair. 

" What do you mean, sir ? " asked the teacher, 
reaching back for one of the long, ugly switches. 

I thought I was gone for a fact, and could feel the 
flesh quivering all up and down my back. But, mus- 
tering all the courage I had left, I showed her the 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 83 

picture and frankly confessed that I was so anxious 
to see the dogs fight, I forgot where I was. The cold- 
natured teacher smiled just a little, cautioned me to be 
more careful in the future, and sent me back to my 
seat, blushing and ready to burst into tears because of 
my humiliation. And it was a long time before I 
heard the last of *' Tige." 

That was not the last severe trial I had during that 
year at school. After a week, Miss Pendle announced 
that on the following Friday afternoon all of us would 
have to " say a speech." Every one of us must 
" speak a piece." The next week there was a great 
stir among the boys and girls selecting and committing 
to memory their " pieces." 

My piece was thoroughly committed, but all week 
I was very nervous. The very thought of the ap- 
proaching ordeal made me weak in the knees. Friday 
afternoon came, and I was the first boy the teacher 
called on for a speech. I didn't know whether my legs 
would carry me out on the floor to the spot she 
designated or not, but, with a desperate effort, I made 
the attempt. I entered the ring marked on the floor 
by the teacher, made my bow, which was a short, sharp 
jerk of the head, and, instead of delivering my own 
speech, started off on one learned by one of the other 
boys. I had heard him repeat it so often out of 
school I knew it about as well as I knew my own. 

That blunder ruined me. The boys laughed, the 
teacher frowned, I bit my lip, cleared my throat, stam- 



84 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

mered, finally started on my own, forgot it after re- 
peating one line, burst into tears and ran to my seat. 

That was a terrible ordeal. My humiliation and 
suffering were something fierce. The fact is, no man 
can ever know the suffering that failure caused me. 
And I am quite sure that grown people do not, can 
not, fully sympathize with children in their heartaches. 

Every Friday afternoon during that school year I 
suffered. I wanted to declaim, was anxious to, but 
just couldn't. I would cry in spite of everything I 
could do. The other boys spoke their pieces and en- 
joyed it. I was humiliated beyond measure because I 
couldn't do what the others did. I suffered. Let no 
man say that it was an inexcusable weakness. Weak- 
ness it was, to be sure, but one I could not possibly 
help. I am now quite sure that my nerves were re- 
sponsible for the whole trouble. And I had no way of 
getting rid of the nervous affection but by growing 
out of it. I was seventeen years old before I could 
face an audience with anything like reasonable com- 
posure. 

I am sure that my mother loved me as tenderly and 
devotedly as ever a mother loved her son. I am 
equally sure that my recklessness during those years 
caused her many a heartache, for which I have many 
a time asked forgiveness. 

Mother was ambitious for her son. She wanted 
me to speak and speak well; she wanted me to do 
well everything the teacher demanded of me. Mother 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 85 

did not understand me. She thought I did not make 
the proper effort to overcome the weakness. She 
switched me regularly every Friday afternoon for sev- 
eral weeks when, returning from school, my sisters 
reported that I would not speak, or that I spoke but 
cried the whole time I was on the floor. 

My devoted mother made a mistake, as I have done 
in the management of my own children. It was not 
whipping that I needed, but pity. One of my sisters 
understood me better than anybody else. She begged 
for me, and, when mother whipped me, seemed to feel 
the punishment as keenly as I did. 

Early in his school life, my first-born son mani- 
fested the same weakness. I went at once to his 
teacher, told her of my own trying experience, and 
asked that the child be excused from that exercise. 

Some parent whose son has the same trouble may 
read these lines. If so, I beg for the child. Don't 
scold or switch him. Encourage him to fight the battle 
to a finish. Help him to believe he can and will win 
in the end. 

II 

The children of today may be surprised to know 
that with us the school began in January and ran ten 
months, with a vacation of two weeks in July. Now, 
it is too hot to study in the summer, but not too hot to 
play ball almost incessantly during the long summer 
months; then, we were glad enough to get to go to 



86 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

school in the summer, and many of the pupils walked 
three miles every morning. 

When I think of the crowded school room, of the 
rough seats, of the writing desk, which was a single 
plank fastened to wooden pegs driven into the wall, 
of the one fireplace, of the poor accommodations gen- 
erally, of the one teacher for fifty pupils, ranging in 
age from six to eighteen years — when I think of all 
these things and the scarcity of books and the impos- 
sibility of getting more, for that was war times, I 
sometimes wonder whether, after all, it was worth 
while. Maybe it was, for it is extremely doubtful 
whether the well-equipped city schools of today turn 
out better spellers orl)etter readers than did those old 
schools of long ago. 

In the Little Mountain School, our pens were made 
of goose quills and our ink of balls from the oak tree. 
The last lesson every afternoon was a spelling lesson, 
and the book used was Webster's School Dictionary. 
Nearly the whole school was in that class, and right 
royal times we had. The lesson assigned was one page 
of the dictionary, and woe betide the fellow that missed 
three words ! In that class were some splendid spell- 
ers. We were required to pronounce each syllable as 
we spelled it, and when finished pronounce distinctly 
the word. 

The good spellers were ambitious to stand " head " ; 
and sometimes when one got that position, he or she, 
oftener she, held it for weeks, those below her watch- 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 87 

ing eagerly for the least slip that they might trip her. 
My recollection is that I was *' most ingenerally " near 
the other end of the class. 

During the winter months, we had great times, at 
the noon recess, warming our lunch — we called it 
dinner — at the spacious fireplace. Some of us had 
long sticks sharpened at the end on which we stuck 
our biscuits and meat and pies. Holding them before 
the red-hot coals, they were soon warmed and browned 
to a crisp. I can see the bacon now as the two ends 
bent and twisted and came together. And those pies ! 
Were there ever better ones made? No connoisseur 
ever enjoyed viands more. 

Speaking of the dinner hour reminds me of an 
unique experience I had. With us at school was 
Homer, the son of the quaint old physician who 
mounted the skeleton in the pines. The old doctor 
was looked upon as a freak, a law unto himself, and 
seemed to relish that peculiar distinction. He ate rats 
whenever he could get them, and never failed to take 
home in his buggy the snake that dared to show him- 
self. He claimed that few kinds of meat were half so 
good as snake steak. And Homer, the son, professed 
to be as fond of those rare dishes as his father was. 
We tried to shame the boy out of it, but not so; he 
stood by his guns. " Rat meat is just as good," said 
he, " as squirrel ; and if you ate a piece of rat believing 
it squirrel, you could never detect a difference, except 
that the flavor of the rat is finer." 



88 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

In those days, it was a custom among us to ex- 
change courtesies. We invited one another to lunch 
with us, sometimes, by way of inducement, venturing 
to make known what particular article of food we had 
brought for that day. A piece of wild turkey, or 
Opossum, or a plate of fish, was considered deUcacy 
enough to tempt the appetite of the most fastidious 
boy or girl in school. 

One day Homer invited me to dine with him. I 
declined at first, but he was very insistent, declaring 
that he had in his basket a part of the finest, fattest 
young squirrel he had ever tasted. 

I accepted the invitation, and enjoyed my dinner 
greatly. Finishing, I assured my host of the great 
pleasure afforded me and that, in all my life, I had 
never tasted better flavored squirrel. 

When we had reassembled on the ball ground. 
Homer gathered us all around him and said very 
calmly : " Now, boys, I want to prove by John that 
rat meat is just as good as squirrel. He's had a dinner 
of rat." 

Well, I was caught. I realized that fully, but for 
a minute my emotions were very conflicting. My first 
impulse was to light right into Homer and blacken his 
eye good, but very quickly I remembered that Homer 
had never been licked by any boy in school, though he 
had had several scraps. There were among us some 
who were stronger than Homer — some who had 
bruised and blackened him considerably, but not one 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 89 

had ever made him say " nuff." With us, a fellow 
was fairly licked when he said " nuff ." Homer never 
had said " nuff." That fact was a considerable deter- 
rent, to be sure, and had not a little to do with 
determining my course. 

I knew it was ** up to me " to say something, or do 
something. I wanted to lick Homer, of course, but 
doubted my ability to do that just as I thought it ought 
to be done ; so I concluded it were better to say some- 
thing than do something — better to use my tongue 
than my fists. 

I acknowledged that I was caught, and declared 
boldly that it was a mean trick in Homer, but, not- 
withstanding that, I was sure the rat I had eaten for 
a young squirrel was as fine as any squirrel I ever 
tasted. And it was. I have never changed my mind, 
but have never hankered after rat meat since then. 

' A school is a world within itself. In it the inhab- 
itants learn to give and take as they must do in the 
larger world after school-days are over. Among all 
the boys, I had perhaps been the most persistent in 
teasing Homer about his rat-eating proclivities. Now 
the tables were completely turned. I took my medi- 
cine. 

I do not think the boys of today enjoy the school 
sports as much as we did. They don't get as much 
out of their games. All one seems to care for is a bat 
and a mit. To become a ball player is the height of 
his ambition, and he has no further use for the morn- 



90 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

ing's paper after he sees the previous day's record of 
his favorite among the pitchers in the big leagues. 

In our day, we had no baseball, but town-ball, bull- 
pen, antney-over, and roly-hole galore. And we had 
marbles, jumping, wresthng — we called it " raslin " — 
foot-races, something for every kind of weather. 
With us, the game of marbles was a fine art; today, 
non est. 

A while ago I saw some boys playing marbles. The 
exhibition was positively pitiable. They played like 
babies, or rather like the girls used to play. 

What fine fun it was in our day to drive at the 
" middle man " from " taw," and how large John 
Black looked when he knocked it clear of the ring 
seven times in succession. And that day Dave McCul- 
lough ** busted " his " taw " into two pieces he hit the 
middler so hard. Dave was the hero that day sure. 

Our teacher was an advertiser of the first water. 
At the close of the first half-year, we had what she 
called an Exhibition. Nowadays, when a school, what- 
ever its size, gives a public entertainment, the " func- 
tion " is called the Commencement, and spelled always 
with a big C. Our Exhibition lasted two days. On 
the first day, all the classes were examined publicly on 
the studies pursued during the term. More than five 
hundred people, mostly women and children, witnessed 
that exercise. 

We had been thoroughly drilled for a month, and 
knew what questions to expect. Our parents must 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 91 

have thought their children were prodigies. The way 
those large girls parsed " Mary had a little lamb " was 
an eye-opener to them. 

The second day was given to declamations and 
compositions. The boys and girls under fifteen years 
of age, from a platform erected in the large church 
near the ** academy/' spoke their pieces, ranging all 
the way from " My bird is dead " and " The boy 
stood on the burning deck " to " Sparticus to the 
Gladiators." 

The young ladies read high-sounding compositions, 
some of them written by other people. O that was a 
red-letter day in the history of the Little Mountain 
School, and people came " from far and near." 

Now the school commencements close with a game 
of baseball, usually with a neighboring school; our 
Exhibitions closed with a game of town-ball, or " sting- 
a-miree." The boys who read this may ask their 
fathers or grandfathers to explain that last game to 
them. It was great. 

The balls we used were made of thread wrapped 
around a piece of cork. There were only two or three 
with rubber in the center. One of these was mine, 
sent to me from Virginia by my brother. He found 
a piece of rubber and trimmed it down to the size of 
a walnut. When mother put the thread round that 
rubber, I had a ball that money couldn't buy. What 
I could do for a fellow with that ball in " sting-a- 



92 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

miree " was a plenty. That was one game which the 
girls took no part in. 

Now, school children use scratch-pads; then, we 
used slates and pieces of slates, and pencils made of 
broken bits of slates that were gathered up from old 
desks and from under the house — slates that had done 
service before the war. If a boy found a piece of real 
slate pencil an inch long, he was considered extremely 
fortunate. By sticking that bit of pencil in the end 
of a quill or a small cane, he could have a pencil as 
long as he desired it. I had one — kept it a whole 
day — then *' kissed it good-bye," as I did most of my 
other possessions. 

Ill 

When the war ended in 1865, there came to the 
neighborhood of Diamond Hill, just four miles from 
Little Mountain, a Confederate soldier, a Scotchman. 
He was a very handsome man and a scholar. He 
graduated from Edinburgh University, and came 
to the United States and to South Carolina in 1859. 
In Beaufort, South Carolina, he taught school a year 
before the war began. Enlisting as a soldier in the 
Confederate army at the beginning of the war, this 
young Scotchman fought through the four years, and, 
at its close, came to Diamond Hill with two of his 
messmates. 

His two comrades in arms loved the gallant scholar, 
and invited him to come with them to their impover- 
ished homes and take his chances with them. He 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 93 

came, and after a few weeks the people of that com- 
munity asked him to teach their children. 

Prof. Hugh Train took charge of the Diamond Hill 
School and taught the remainder of the year. For 
that work he got but little pay, for there was next to 
no money in the country; but he did a monumental 
work and made a reputation for teaching thoroughly 
and extensively, and almost without books. 

fXhe following January, Professor Train took 
charge of the Little Mountain School. A few books 
could be bought then and as many slates as we needed. 

The new teacher was a thorough disciplinarian, 
and it was well that he was. He had in that school 
all kinds and grades of pupils. Some of the young 
men had been in the army, and felt that they were 
men indeed. They soon found that an ex-soldier sat 
behind that desk, and that in that school there was but 
one master. The teacher was six feet two inches tall, 
weighed about one hundred and ninety pounds, and 
had not a pound of surplus flesh. I saw him one day 
bend a young man across a bench, hold him with one 
hand, and whip him until he begged like a child. We 
soon learned that when he assigned a lesson he meant 
that we get it. Notwithstanding his rigid, uncompro- 
mising discipline, he was not cruel or unreasonable. 
He simply meant to be master of the school, and we 
were to " do business." 

One of his soldier friends, James Latimer, with 
whom Professor Train came South, entered the school 



94 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

in January and began the study of Latin, Greek, and 
mathematics. I said he entered schooL He came 
every day at noon and spent the whole of what wc 
called " big recess " reading Greek and Latin and 
demonstrating propositions in geometry. Mr. Latimer 
had a brilliant mind, and afterwards took the doctor's 
degree at Leipsic. Returning to America, the maimed 
Confederate soldier, the Rev. James F. Latimer, D. D., 
Ph. D., was called to the chair of Greek in Davidson 
College, North Carolina. The country boy who be- 
came the profound theologian and scholar carried in 
his body to his grave a bullet fired from a Yankee 
rifle. 

Mr. Train was one of the most energetic teachers I 
ever knew. He had to be. With forty pupils of all 
sizes and ranging in age from seven to twenty-five 
years, with few books and fewer blackboards, there 
was no time for loafing. From morning till night he 
was astir. 

We boys used to think he had eyes in the back of 
his head. Though busy teaching a class, he seemed to 
be able to detect instantly any pranks we tried to play. 
I have known him to stop a class reading Caesar, lick 
a boy for some infraction of the rules, and then go on 
with the lesson as if nothing had happened. 

Even while we played at recess, he seemed to have 
his eyes constantly on us. One day, two little fellows, 
eight years old, quarreled. We encouraged them to 
fight. They didn't need much encouragement, but we 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 95 

supplied it in abundance, and the little chaps went at 
it in dead earnest. They were both game and well 
matched. Never did two bantam roosters fight with 
greater persistency. It was great sport for us who 
were a little larger, but, for once, we forgot and be- 
came too hilarious. The bell rang, and then there was 
consternation in the camp. We knew that another 
fight was on. 

There is much in the influence of a crowd. It is 
" the mind of the mob." We walked into the school 
house with considerable boldness. Surely, the teacher 
wouldn't whip all of us just for laughing. That's the 
way we felt about it, but not for long. 

The two young pugilists were not punished, but 
were told that if they fought again they would be. All 
the spectators were ordered to come out in front of 
the desk. Did he flog us? The reader will please 
allow me to forget that if I can. We took our medi- 
cine, and Gus Williams declared it was a " dost." 

Mr. Train did not require us to declaim, and for 
that one thing I loved him. Every Wednesday after- 
noon, however, he devoted to mental arithmetic — not 
thirty minutes or sixty minutes, but two solid hours. 
That was a great exercise, and one for which I shall 
ever be grateful. I am teaching mathematics today 
because maybe of the drilling and grilling he gave me 
in arithmetic. 

We used Smith's English Grammar. We had no 
other — could get no other. Those numerous rules were 



96 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

committed to memory and many hundred sentences 
parsed *' to a finish/' Not only that : we were required 
to write on our slates from memory the whole of the 
verb " To Love " in all of its voices, moods, tenses, 
numbers, and persons. I repeated and wrote the 
words '' might, could, would or should " so often that 
they fairly racked my brain at night. The little I 
know of my own language, I learned from Hugh Train 
during that one year at Little Mountain. At college, 
very little attention was paid to the study of English. 

But the Little Mountain School could not hold a 
man with Mr. Train's attainments and worth. He was 
loved by pupils and patrons, but seemed to have a 
longing for the seashore. At the end of the school 
year, he went to Beaufort and then to Savannah, Geor- 
gia, where he taught successfully until his death about 
three years ago. 

I owe much to the sturdy Scotchman whom the 
fortunes of war threw across my path early in my life. 
His inborn fidelity to trust and habit of doing things 
" to a finish " had great influence over me. 

Among all my teachers, from Little Mountain 
through high school and college to university, not one 
of them impressed my life more profoundly than did 
the virile Scotchman, Hugh Train. Like the peerless 
Carlisle, his love of truth and fidelity to it was all- 
pervasive. " Tell the truth if it costs your life," he 
used to say; and, though Dr. Carlisle did not put it 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 97 

just that way, there was never any mistaking his atti- 
tude toward that cardinal virtue. 

Indeed, in looking back over my student life, I have 
often compared these two men. They were both cast 
in large mold. They were, in many respects, alike; 
and, yet, were very unlike. The one, Dr. Carlisle, was 
Scotch-Irish; the other, a Scotchman thoroughbred. 
Each tried to give his pupils high ideals. 

The Scotchman was gruff and brusk at times, un- 
compromising in his demands upon his pupils, and 
very aggressive; the Scotch-Irishman was as faithful 
always to his trust, but in his intercourse with students 
had much more of the suaviter in modo. 

When any man that ever sat at Dr. Carlisle's feet 
thinks of his college and university instructors, the 
venerable Doctor stands out like a mountain peak in 
its solemn and isolated grandeur. I see him always as 
Hawthorne's ** Great Stone Face," and near him Hugh 
Train, a little smaller, but, withal, magnificent. Par 
nobile fratrum. 

Each of these great teachers has gone to his re- 
ward. Each left the world better and richer for having 
lived in it ; and each left behind him a host of men to 
bless his memory. J 

Such men pass away ; they never die. 

" Cold in the dust the perished heart may lie, 
But that which warmed it once can never die." 



CHAPTER VII 

" DE BABY " 

My thoughts are wandering far afield tonight. 
They take me back to the time beyond that when Jack 
and Pete and I broke the steers, annoyed the cats, and 
fought pitched battles with green apples and molly- 
pops. And, in the pictures I see, the principal figure 
is ** the baby," the bundle of sunshine that came into 
the home with its softening, mellowing, saving influ- 
ence. 

I was just out of my dresses, and was glorying in 
my first pair of pantaloons and red-top boots. I was 
as restless and reckless as a boy could well be, and 
where I was there was something doing, and — not 
always the right thing. " De baby," as the negroes 
called her — '' Rat," I called her — was my shadow, and 
her innocence and perfect confidence made her follow 
me at times when it had been better for both of us if 
she had declined my leadership. 

After a while, when I realized that her quiet 
influence was interfering with the full play of my 
mischievous instincts or inclinations, or, to be more 
charitable to myself, my love of fun, I began to dodge 
her. When I did, she called me in a plaintive, tearful 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 99 

voice that echoes and re-echoes through the chambers 
of my heart down to this good day. 

FaiUng to find her brother, the dear child went to 
her mother, as we all did with our troubles — as I did 
with every pain from a " stumped toe " to a broken 
collar-bone. 

With troubled face and tear-dimmed eyes, she said, 
" Mama, w'ere Bud-John ? " Then came mother's time 
to soothe and comfort. How often she did it, and 
how lovingly, only God and the angels know. 

" Never mind, darling," said mother, kissing back 
the tears, " never mind ; Bubber is a bad boy to run 
away from little sister. Mama '11 have to whip Bub- 
ber." 

" No, no, Mama ; 00 musn't w'ip Bud-John — he 
good boy." 

Precious child! In her distress because of my 
absence, she was loving and forgiving still. And every 
good thing that fell into her hands, every apple, every 
cooky that Aunt Charlotte, the cook, gave her (and 
the best of everything had to go to " dat baby ") — 
everything that fell into those precious hands had to 
be put away and shared with the ungrateful brother 
who had run away from her. 

But there was one amusement, or exercise, from 
which the little sister was never absent. We needed 
her and had to have her. She had a sweet voice, and 
was fond of singing. So, on funeral occasions her 



100 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

presence was indispensable. And in the spring-time 
these occasions were right frequent. 

Our cemetery was in the rear of the garden. When 
a little chicken was found dead, a grave was dug 
according to my own directions. This done, a funeral 
procession consisting of half a hundred pickaninnies 
was formed. Led by my sister and me, following 
close upon the heels of the four pallbearers, we pro- 
ceeded to the grave. 

There, mounted upon a pulpit consiting of box or 
barrel, I delivered the funeral oration, outlining the 
peculiar virtues of the dead and bemoaning the great 
loss entailed upon humanity by the sudden demise of 
our departed friend, and wound up by assuring the 
mourners of a better day beyond, where every chicken 
would be allowed to live until he was ready for the 
frying pan. 

And we didn't fail to have music. A song and a 
prayer preceded the oration. How wonderfully imita- 
tive are children ! 

Our songs were selected with no particular regard 
for the fitness of things. Sometimes it was " Am I a 
Soldier of the Cross?" Sometimes, "Abide with 
Me," and sometimes " Dixie," or *' 'Way Down upon 
the Suwanee River." From my sisters we had caught 
Dixie and the Suwanee River ; and from the grown-up 
negroes, " Am I a Soldier of the Cross? " 

Young as I was, I knew that what we were doing 
would not meet the approval of my mother, so the little 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION loi 

sister was pledged to secrecy. Our fun went on, there- 
fore, till one day one of my grown sisters discovered 
us — caught us in the very act — and kept perfectly 
quiet until the benediction was pronounced and orders 
issued to look for another corpse. 

The matter was duly reported to mother, and the 
leading culprit was ordered to " come into court." 
There was no use denying the charge — we had been 
** caught with the goods on." I pleaded guilty. Then 
the Judge — God bless her memory ! — drew me to her 
and kissed my forehead; then she told me of death 
and of the resurrection, and of what it means to bury 
the dead. After she saw that I had caught somewhat 
of the meaning of that solemn rite, she showed me the 
wrong of what we were doing and asked me to promise 
that I would do it no more. 

I was full of remorse. Mother told me of how they 
had buried my sister Mary three years before, and, as 
she talked, I noticed that her eyes were filled with tears, 
and a lump came into my throat. I promised. And I 
kept that promise. Mother kissed me again, and I ran 
out, a more thoughtful, and, I trust, a better boy. 

Thank God for the wise and prudent mothers who 
know how to talk to wayward boys in such a way as 
to bring them " up standing on their feet ! " 

II 

It was a beautiful afternoon in the late spring. I 
heard a jolly, contagious laugh. I knew that laugh, 



102 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

there was no mistaking it, and ran around the house 
to see Sister Barbara, who had just returned from the 
postoffice. She had dismounted from her pony, Sancho, 
and thrown the reins to Henry, whose duty it was to 
attend to any horse that came to that gate. Henry 
was a negro lad of fourteen summers. 

On Southern plantations, before and during the 
Civil War, many of the young ladies could ride as 
well as their brothers, and not a few of them could 
handle firearms with great accuracy and skill. The 
long *' riding skirt,*' the ** upping block," and the 
" horse rack " — hitching rack, really — were familiar 
objects in front of most Southern homes. 

Sister Barbara had thrown her riding-skirt across 
her arm and was going toward the house, when Henry 
said : " Miss Barbry, dar dat ole sow whut been 
eatin' Missus' chickens." 

A long-nosed sow, whose habitat was the river 
swamp, made occasional excursions into the barnyard 
and carried off a whole brood of little chickens. An 
ant-eater is not more destructive of ants, nor a shark 
of little turtles than is an old sow of biddies when 
her taste runs in that direction. 

" All right, Henry ; we'll attend to her." 

Running into the house, the vivacious girl brought 
out my father's muzzle-loading shotgun, and, placing it 
to her shoulder, emptied a load of bird-shot into the 
anatomy of the notorious chicken-eater. 

The old rogue left precipitately, and in a manner 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 103 

not at all dignified, but to my very great delight. When, 
some months after, she reappeared upon the scene, she 
brought with her nine beautiful pigs, and was dubbed 
by the negroes *' de ole nine sow." 

My father was a martyr to sick-headache. Just 
why it was called " sick-headache " I do not know. 
Indeed, I do not know that there is any other kind, 
but this I do know : he suffered excruciatingly. I did 
not know then, of course, but now sometimes I think 
that overwork and great anxiety for his wife and 
children and native Southland caused his collapse. He 
died at the age of fifty-two. 

He was from early morning till late afternoon con- 
stantly in the saddle or in his buggy. Besides his own 
plantations with varied interests, he had four others to 
supervise. Their owners were following the Confed- 
erate flag. My mother knew when father turned the 
bend in the road as he neared the house whether he 
was suffering with the terrible headache. 

About an hour after Sister Barbara had returned 
from the postoffice and sent the chicken-eater back to 
the swamp in such a hurry, father drove up from 
Abbeville. Mother saw him coming, and said to Henry : 
" Run to the gate ; your master is very sick." 

The sufferer was assisted up the steps, put to bed, 
and ministered to by the same loving hands that had 
done it so often before. Ah, I can see now the pale 
face as it lay on the pillow, and see my mother as she 
rubbed his forehead and temples so gently, while Aunt 



104 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

Charlotte and Henry were bathing his feet in water as 
hot as he could bear it. And I can hear again that 
low groan that came from the lips of the patient suf- 
ferer. 

An hour passed, and mother was still pressing the 
brow of my father, who had fallen into a fitful, uneasy 
sleep. Dear Aunt Charlotte knew, when master was 
suffering, not to ring the bell. So she came in as 
silently as a cat and whispered : 

" Missus, supper ready." 

Ill 

When mother, after a few moments, slipped away 
to the dining room, she found the high chair at her 
elbow vacant. 

*' Where is baby? " she inquired. 

" Rachel has gone to look for her," one of the 
sisters replied. 

In another minute, Rachel, one of the house-girls, 
came in, saying, " Missus, I can't fine de baby." 

"What! Rachel, you can't find her? Run up- 
stairs — she may be asleep ; Sooky, run up to Dinah's 
house; go to every house at The Quarter and ask all 
the women if they've seen the baby." 

Sooky, Rachel's companion, made off to The Quar- 
ter as fast as she could go, and Rachel, a nimble- footed 
girl of sixteen, darted up the stairs. Directly she ran 
down with : 

" She not up dar. Missus. I look in uver room." 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 105 

Then mother, with her tea untouched, pushed back 
her chair and went to the back portico. And we all 
followed. 

" Run, Rachel," she said, " run to all the houses in 
The Quarter, and then go to the gin-house and the 
barn — the little thing may be asleep there." 

Two of my sisters started to the barn, and two to 
the cotton-house. We children were accustomed to 
playing in both houses, and they, too, thought perhaps 
little sister had fallen asleep in one. 

I was standing by my mother, holding to her skirt. 
Putting her trembling hand on my head, she said: 
*' Johnnie, my son, have you not seen little sister since 
dinner? " 

*' No, mama," I sobbed ; and I felt guilty, for in 
the early afternoon I had slipped away from the baby 
because Jack and I had planned to go fishing for min- 
nows with our pin-hooks in the spring branch. I 
didn't tell mother that. 

The " hands " were now coming in from the fields. 
They came from several directions, and were singing 
one of those mellow plantation songs, one squad on one 
road answering another on another road, and singing 
as only negroes could sing — a song that the boys and 
girls of today can never know and never hear in all its 
sweetness. Compared with it, the miserable, efferves- 
cent ragtime of today is as sounding brass. 

Uncle Griffin, the wagoner, had already driven his 
wagon under the shed, and was putting the mules in 



tob ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

their stalls. Aunt Charlotte, his wife, the cook, was 
astir in the yard, looking here and there for " de baby," 
running over a little darky here and jolting a grown-up 
one yonder, and all the time threatening dire punish- 
ment upon any " nigger dat would dar hu't dat chile." 

Seeing her spouse in the lot, she yelled out: 
"Griffin! You, Griif!!" 

" W'ut you want, nigger? " 

" Does you see nuttin' dat chile down dar? De 
baby dun loss." 

" Naw, me doan see her ; you crazy lunatic, doan 
you know dese mules kill dat chile ef she come een 
dis lot? Dat chile not here." 

Mother sent a runner to tell Aunt Charlotte she 
would wake her master, but the messenger was too 
late. Father had heard the words, " de baby dun loss," 
and was sitting up in bed when mother ran into the 
room. 

*' What is it, my dear? What is it?" he asked, all 
the time pressing his hand to his temple. 

Poor mother ! That was a trying time for her. 

" Do lie down," she said, in her sweetest tones ; 
" it will not do for you to get excited. The baby is 
asleep somewhere; we'll find her directly. Lie down 
now, won't you, please ? " 

Father threw his head back on his pillow, and said 
with a groan : "Mybabylost?" He seemed to 
be dazed. 

Rachel and Sooky had made a thorough search of 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 107 

the cabins. And now, bursting into the room, Rachel 
blurted out : 

" Missus, dat chile ain't nowhar up dar, en Tempy's 
Hannah en Aunt Susan's Anaky missin' — all two uv 
'em missin'." 

Father got out of bed, despite the pleadings of my 
mother. 

" I can't remain in bed, Eliza, with my baby lost," 
he said. " I must get up. I must," 

Mother knew him. We all knew him. Mother 
knew that he would be in his boots till the baby was 
found, or until he fell from exhaustion. She got his 
clothes as quickly as possible. 

Turning to Rachel, he said : '* Tell Essex to come 
to me." 

Unc' Essick was at that very moment directing the 
negroes in searching every nook and corner of the 
premises. When he came to the door, hat in hand, 
father was sitting in his large chair and mother was 
standing behind him bathing his throbbing head. I 
noticed that mother was careful to stand where father 
couldn't see her face, and then I saw her now and 
then brush a tear from her cheek and saw her Ups 
moving. I knew too well what that meant, and slipped 
away to a corner of the room to cry. 

" Come in, Essex ; come close to me, it hurts my 
head to raise my voice. Now, listen: Three of the 
children are missing — the baby, Hannah, and Anaky. 
We must make a thorough search for them. First, we 



io8 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

must inform the neighbors and find out whether 
they've seen or heard of them. 

" Now, you call the men, Alex, Monday, Harvey, 
Mose, and Tom ; put each one on a mule and send one 
to Joel Cunningham's, one to Boss', one to Cox's, one 
to Martin's, and one to Ben Williams'. Tell them not 
to spare the mules." 

Two of my sisters, Sallie and Barbara, who had 
been leading searching parties about the place, came in 
just in time to hear father's directions to Unc' Essick. 

" Let us go to Cunningham's and to Boss', father," 
Barbara said. " I'm afraid the negroes won't go fast 
enough. Let us go." 

** Very well then ; maybe that's best. Essex, have 
the horses brought for the girls." 

The faithful black man bowed himself out, and in 
a few minutes could be heard giving commands with 
the sharpness and precision of a major-general. 

The two young ladies were soon in their saddles, 
and, leaning against a post on the piazza, I Hstened to 
the clatter of their horses' hoofs on the hard road 
leading to Cunningham's till it died away in the dis- 
tance. At the same time, four mules were racing in 
other directions just as fast as big, strong men could 
make them go. 

With his accustomed thought fulness, Unc' Essick 
had made them mount the very best, fleetest mules in 
the bam. 

It was not long before all the riders returned, none 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 109 

bringing news of the lost children. In the meantime, 
Unc' Essick had interviewed every " mammy " at The 
Quarter, and Aunt Lucinda, the oldest woman on the 
place, said to him : " 'Bout two hours ber sun, I see 
dem chillun gwine toads de huckleberry patch." This 
he reported to father just as my sisters rode up to the 
gate. 

" O God ! " father exclaimed, and then was silent. 

My mother was still behind him, and I saw her sink 
into a chair and bury her face in her hands. I leaned 
against her and slipped my hand into hers. She was 
shaking with emotion, but there was no outcry ; not a 
sound escaped her lips. 

After a moment, which seemed an hour, father 
spoke again. 

" Essex," he said, *' I was afraid of that. They 
have gone toward Penny's Creek. You know, the 
streams have been full several days. The children 
may try to cross it; if they do " — here his voice failed 
him and his hand dropped to his side. My mother 
sprang to her feet and ran to him. But, by that sheer 
force of will for which he was always noted, he re- 
covered his poise, and, taking my mother's hand in 
both his, said very calmly : 

" But we mustn't get excited ; there is work to be 
done. Essex, gather all the hands together, men and 
women. Leave five or six of the oldest women to 
take care of the children in the cabins. Divide them 
into squads of six or eight. Give Griffin one squad, 



no ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

Big Lon another, Tom another, and then pick out the 
other best men for leaders. Tell them where to go — 
not too close together — tell them to search that side of 
the plantation first next to Penny's Creek." (My 
father's plantation was divided into pretty nearly 
equal parts by the main thoroughfare running from 
Abbeville to Anderson.) 

** Get every horn on the place and give one to 
each of the leaders. And tell them not to let a horn 
be blown until the children are found. Tell them to 
search that side of the plantation first and do it thor- 
oughly, some going as far down as the bridge over the 
creek at the Prince place and others as far up the 
creek as the Williams place. If the children are 
found, let the horns be blown loud and long. And tell 
Henry to saddle Sam and bring him to the door." 

Then my mother pleaded : ** Oh, you must not go ; 
you must not go — it will kill you." Pressing her hand 
to his lips, he turned his pale face to hers and said : 

*' My darling, don't you know I'd rather die in the 
effort to save my baby than live and die later of re- 
morse if she should be drowned? I must go." 

Child as I was, I was struck by the grim deter- 
mination that shone in his eyes. 

" Marster, you kyah stan' it — you stay and let me 
go," begged the faithful black man. But a wave of 
the master's hand sent Unc' Essick out to his task. 

Unc' Essick was not long in executing his orders. 
A half-dozen horns of various sizes were found and 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION m 

placed in the hands of the leaders. My father was 
fond of the chase, kept a pack of trained fox hounds, 
and, before the Civil War, often enjoyed the sport. 
Hence the horns. 

Five of my sisters fell in with the searchers, and 
soon they were all off toward the west and toward 
Penny's Creek, some of the women weeping as they 
went. 

IV 

When mother saw that father was determined to 
go, she made one request. " Let Lindsay go with 
you," she said. " He can ride Fan, and bring you 
back if anything happens." 

" Yes, he may go." 

Lindsay was one of the shrewdest negroes on the 
place, and possibly the strongest of the bunch. Mother 
knew that if father fell from his horse, Lindsay could 
literally carry him home in his arms. Fan was a little, 
round-bodied mule, fleet of foot and active as a kitten. 

" Little Sam," as the negroes called him, was a 
Kentucky thoroughbred. He weighed about a thousand 
and fifty pounds, was as clean of limb as a fawn, and 
as agile as a Texas pony. Nobody but the master was 
allowed to ride or drive him. The little sorrel knew 
every whim of the master, and the master knew his 
horse. 

Unc' Essick wanted to lead one of the searching 
parties, but father ordered him to remain on the 



112 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

premises, take care of those of us left behind, and give 
directions to the searchers as they returned. 

"If any of the folks come back before daylight, 
send some to the river, at Fox's Den; send some to 
the Wesley place, but we must search thoroughly the 
Penny's Creek side of the plantation before we go to 
the other side. I shall remain on that side all night, if 
the children are not found, and, after daylight, I shall 
examine the creek banks for tracks from the Prince 
bridge up as far as the Williams crossing. But the 
moon is so bright we may be able to see tracks to- 
night." 

Fortunately, it was a bright, moonlit night, not 
cold, but the atmosphere was crisp and sharp. 

While father was giving final directions to Unc' 
Essick, mother was talking to Lindsay aside. 

" Lindsay," she said, " I am depending upon you. 
Your master is very sick and weak. I want you to 
promise me that you will stay with him tonight. No 
matter where he goes, nor how fast, will you stay 
with him and bring him back to me if he falls? " 

" Yas, mam. Missus ; yas, mam, I'll stay wid 'im en 
fetch 'im back, ef Gawd spar me. You know ole Fan 
kin go whar Little Sam go; 'fo' Gawd, Missus, dat 
ole mule kin mos' clam a tree en kin run lak a rabbit." 

Then master and man started on their long ride — 
longer than either of them dreamed it would be. 

Left in the home besides my mother and me were 
my sister Ida and old Mrs. Cobb. Mrs. Cobb was a 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 113 

neighbor, a very old lady, and lived three miles up 
Penny's Creek. The old soul was a privileged char- 
acter. Everybody knew her and respected her and 
humored her. When she felt like it, she came to our 
home and remained as long as she pleased, sometimes 
several days. 

That night she was a veritable Job's comforter. 
Soon after my father had gone, while mother was 
walking the floor and wringing her hands, the old lady 
refilled her pipe, raked it in the ashes, and said : 

" Yes, that thar Penny's Crick is a mighty danger- 
ous crick; ef the baby goes in thar, she'll sholy git 
drownded. You know, 'Liza, Joe Spence's little gal 
was drownded in that same crick three years ago. Hit 
was up, and the little gal tried to walk a foot-log and 
hit turned with her. Yes, hit's a dangerous crick, 
hit is." 

Mother made no reply, but continued to pace the 
floor; Sister Ida, a ten-year-old girl, slipped into an 
adjoining room and sobbed herself to sleep. 

After the old visitor had smoked her pipe of to- 
bacco, she knocked out the ashes and said : " Well, 
'Liza, I'll lay down ; I can't do no good a-settin' here." 

She did lie down, and in two minutes was snoring 
quite lustily. 

I sat in my little chair, and had one hand on my 
little sister's, now vacant. But keep a healthy boy 
perfectly quiet a little while and he'll go to sleep. It 



114 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

was not long before I began to nod. Mother saw it, 
and said, very tenderly : 

" My son, you must go to bed now ; you are 
sleepy." 

I protested, and said : " I want to sit up with you, 
mother." 

Then she knelt down by me, put her arms around 
my neck, and prayed. I shall not attempt to write 
that prayer. Verily, I believe it is written on high. 
Then mother kissed my forehead and said : " Dar- 
ling, go to bed now, mother's little man must sleep; 
Jesus will take care of mama and bring little sister 
back to us." 

Then I did go to bed, perfectly satisfied that Jesus 
would take care of Mama, and that, somehow, some 
time, He would bring little sister back to us. 

Only my mother and her Lord ever knew her 
agony of soul during that long, terrible night. When 
I fell asleep, she was walking the floor, and when, at 
two o'clock, I awoke, she was standing in the door 
talking to Unc' Essick, who sat on the steps. The 
kind-hearted slave, unlike Mrs. Cobb, was trying to 
comfort the distressed mother. 

" Missus," I heard him say, " you needn't be 
a-skeerdt dat chile gwine git drownded. Dem chillun 
ain't gwine een de water — dey skeerdt o' water. 
'Sides, little chillun git sleepy when dey walk long 
time, speshly when night come. Dey lay down en go 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 115 

to sleep. Dem chillun sleep right now somewhar een 
de leaves." 

Again the old man was right. At that very moment 
the little ones were sleeping soundly by a log in the 
leaves. More than once, searching parties had passed 
very near them, but failed to disturb their slumbers. 

" Missus, I think Marster mek a mistake. He 
sick. He oughter stay here en let me go. I know de 
woods better'n he do, en I know 'em better'n dem 
yudder niggers. When I wuz a runaway, I sleep 
menny night in de leaves. Now, I think dem 
chillun, when dey fine dey loss, jis keep walkin', en 
keep walkin', tel night ketch 'em, den dey lay right 
down en sleep. Ef dey fine dey loss 'fo' night, dey 
turn eder down tru de Prince plantation to de Martin 
place, else dey turn de yudder way tru de Cox place 
to de Pratt's. After daylight, I kin fine der tracks — I 
wish Marster let me go." 

Then mother put her handkerchief to her face and 
said, with tears in her voice : " You shall go, Essex, 
and I believe you'll bring my baby back to me." 

" Yas'm, I'll fetch her back, en don't you be oneasy 
'bout dat chile, Missus. Dat chile got sense; she 
ain't gwine een no ribber ner crick. Yas'm, I'll fetch 
dat baby back; she shan't sleep anudder night in de 
woods." 

About daylight, the hunters began to straggle in, 
one by one, and then by twos and threes, but they 
brought no tidings of the lost children. 



ii6 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

" Did you see your master? " mother asked. 

" Yas'm, we seed him two or free time. He wuz 
er ridin' Little Sam, en Lindsay right terhin' *im on 
ole Fan. Dem hosses wuz gwine ober fences en ditches 
same ez deer." 

Very soon my sisters came, tired and worn and 
hungry. Their skirts were bedraggled and torn, and 
their hands bleeding from brier scratches. 

Aunt Charlotte had breakfast ready, and the five 
sisters, discouraged but still hopeful, went at once to 
the dining room. 

Unc' Essick came out of his cabin, blowing the 
ashes from his hot ashcake and shifting it from one 
hand to the other. He was ready to redeem his 
promise to " Missus." He went through the kitchen 
into the dining room and outlined his plan to my sis- 
ters. To the eldest he said : 

" Miss Sallie, you git on old Bill ; he sho-f ooted 
en fast, en you go straight toads Fox's Den en sweep 
round toads Martin's Mill en de Martin Quarter. En, 
Miss Sallie, you let Henry ride behine you to pull 
down fences. Miss Cassie, you en Miss Jennie an 
Miss Julia ride Dick en Sancho en Mollie. Miss 
Barbry, you ride ole Blaze. Now, you mind. Miss 
Barbry, dat ole fool is tricky en ain't got no sense, 
but kin go lak de wind, en I b'lieve you kin ride de 
debil ef you could git your saddle on 'im." 

Despite their depression, the young ladies had to 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 117 

smile at Unc' Essick's opinion of Barbara's horseman- 
ship. 

" You chilluns is all tired out now, en must ride — 
you musn't walk no more." 

To Unc' Essick, the young ladies were just " Mars- 
ter's chillun." 

" One uv you better go ter de Premium bottom, 
one ter de Wesley Key place, en one ez fur down ez 
de Miller place. Let de folks down dar know de 
chillun loss. We must look good down dis a-way fust, 
en den we must beat up toads de Cox place ez fur ez 
de Little Mountain." 

Assured that they would carry out his directions, 
Unc' Essick went out into the yard and ordered a half- 
dozen negro boys to saddle the horses for " de young 
Misses." Then turning his face southward and 
munching his ashcake as he went, he began his long 
tramp looking for " dat blessed chile." 

By eight o'clock nearly all the searchers had re- 
turned, breakfasted, and gone again to the east and 
south side of the plantation. Father and Lindsay 
were still absent, and mother's anxiety for father in- 
creased. At nine o'clock they were still out. A few 
moments later one of the men straggled in and told 
mother he had seen father after sun up. " He tole me 
to tell you," said Starling, " not to worry 'bout him, 
en tell Unc' Essick send de folks down on tudder side 
de plantation. He say he gwine up toads de Bob Bell 
place." 



ii8 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

This somewhat reUeved mother's anxiety. She 
surmised then that father beUeved the children had 
gone farther and farther from home. He had, in 
reaUty, determined to make a long swing around a 
semi-circle of many miles north of home to enlist the 
sympathies and aid of the people. 

" Missus, Marster gwine kill Little Sam ; dat hoss 
didn't had a dry hair on him," said Starling. 

The people were kind and sympathetic and by 
midday there were a thousand people, mostly colored, 
looking for the lost children. 

V 

By two o'clock, Unc' Essick had satisfied himself 
that the children were not south of home, and had 
pretty well rounded up his forces ready for a start in 
another direction. 

He would eat no dinner himself, for he had 
promised Missus to fetch her " de baby " before sun- 
down, and now the sun had turned toward the west. 
Standing in front of the house, he gave directions 
with an air that inspired confidence and hope. 

" Miss Sallie," he said, " you go right up de road 
tel you come to de gin-house at Marse William Black 
place, den turn round de cornder of de gin-house en 
ride straight toads Spur Crick, en when you git dar, 
come right down de crick en watch fur little tracks 
een de san'. Ef you fine tracks, mek Henry git down 
en follow 'em same ez a houn'. I'll go tru de woods 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 119 

en fields. Miss Sallie, ride Bill hard tel you git to de 
crick, den tek it slow en watch fur de tracks." 

Old Bill was not accustomed to the saddle, being 
one of the carriage horses, but that day he had a new 
experience, and made the two miles to Black's gin- 
house in shorter time than he had ever done it before. 
Turning towards the creek, he was allowed to take it 
more leisurely. Reaching the stream, my sister turned 
the horse's head down the bottom and rode very 
slowly, while she and Henry looked closely in the sand 
or plowed ground for children's tracks. Three-quar- 
ters of a mile down, they came to Cox's bridge and 
crossed it, as Unc' Essick had suggested. That near its 
source, Spur Creek was but little more than a spring 
branch, and they knew that the children would not 
hesitate to cross it. 

A few minutes after my sister crossed the bridge, 
Unc' Essick crossed. She kept the road, but he 
turned sharply up stream and kept to the soft, alluvial 
soil, in which little bare feet could easily make tracks. 

A half-mile from the creek, my sister met Dr. John 
Cunningham, a neighbor. He had been for two days 
several miles away with a desperately ill patient, and 
was returning home. She told him of our distress. 

"Any little negroes with the baby, Miss Sallie?" 
he asked. 

" Yes, two — one just her size, and the other larger." 

" Why, bless your life ! those were the children I 
saw just about a mile back — the very children." 



120 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

"Oh, Doctor!" 

" Yes, they were about a hundred yards from the 
road, and the little ones were crying and the largest 
one was quarreling at them for not keeping up with 
her." 

My sister brushed a tear from her cheek. 

'* I thought they were Cox's children, and told that 
girl that if she didn't wait for the little ones, I'd get 
down and thrash her with my buggy whip. They 
were on that side of the road and going toward 
Cox's. You go up the road till you come to a 
gate — it's nearly a mile — turn in there. About two 
hundred yards from that gate and one hundred 
from the fence, I think you'll find their tracks, for 
they were crossing a bare, red spot. I'll drive over to 
the house beyond the creek, get a saddle, and hurry 
back to help you. Miss Sallie. It will require but a 
few minutes." 

In the meantime, Unc' Essick had found the chil- 
dren's tracks in the bottom, and no hound ever fol- 
lowed his quarry with keener eye or better judgment. 
They zigzagged across the bottom and then to the edge 
of the sedge field, where he found they had peeled the 
bark from a sassafras bush and had sat down to 
chew it. 

To say that my sister was overjoyed would be to 
express it very mildly. Old Bill made that mile to the 
gate in short order, and in a manner somewhat hazard- 
ous to the riders. They turned in through the gate, 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 121 

and at the bare, red spot found the tracks for which 
they had so long looked. They got the direction the 
children were going. 

** Now, Henry," my sister said, " we must ride 
slowly and listen for their voices." After going a few 
hundred yards through an old pine field, they fell into 
an old, unused farm road, and there found the tracks 
again. 

Another hundred yards, the horse walking very 
slowly and making but little noise, Henry whispered : 
*' Stop, Miss Sallie, I hear 'em." They both listened 
intently, and sure enough they heard the children talk- 
ing. They were some fifty yards from the road, and 
above some underbrush my sister saw the top of 
Anaky's head. 

** Now, Henry," said she, '' you see where they 
are ; run back down the road a piece and go around on 
the other side of the children, and when I call Ellen, 
if they start to run away you catch Ellen." 

" Yas'm, I sho ketch dat baby dis time," and 
Henry was off like a rabbit. 

When he had had time to get beyond the children, 
my sister called : 

" Ellen ! Ellen ! Come here, darling ; here's sister." 

To her great delight, the long-lost child recognized 
her voice, and, instead of running from her in fright, 
ran to her. 

Henry was so excited he didn't wait to see if the 
children would take fright and run away, but just as 



122 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

soon as he heard the first call he made for the baby, 
and by the time she reached the road Henry was there 
lifting her to the arms of her sister. 

The little thing ran with both hands up and tears 
streaming down her face. 

" Come to sister, darling, we've been looking so 
long for the precious baby." 

''Mama, I want mama/' the little one sobbed, as 
she nestled on her sister's bosom. " I want my 
mama." 

Ah ! during all these many years, I've noticed that 
the cry of the troubled child is, "I want my mama." 
Others may soothe and calm the shattered nerves, but 
only the touch of mother's hands and mother's lips 
can cure the aching heart. 

" You shall go to mama, darling ; you shall go to 
mama right now," said Sister Sallie, covering the baby 
with kisses. 

** Henry," she called, " jump up on that log and 
blow the horn just as loud as you can." 

Henry had blown that horn many a time to call the 
hands from field to dinner. He mounted a large log 
near the road, and leaped from that to the tall stump 
from which it had been cut. Putting the horn to his 
lips, he blew first two short and then one long blast — 
toot ! toot ! to-o-o-ot ! Filling his lungs, he repeated, 
but before the second blast could be blown, another 
horn a mile away rang out over the hills, then another 
farther on, and another, and another, until the hills 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 123 

and valleys for miles around were reverberating with 
the joyous, mellow sound, mingled with the spontane- 
ous shouts from a thousand throats. 

Then everybody made for home. 

Unc' Essick had just found where the children had 
stopped to chew the sassafras bark, when his sharp ear 
caught the first blast from Henry's horn. He didn't 
wait for the second — he knew what it meant. ** T'ank 
Gawd ! " he said, and, reaching up for his old hat, he 
made a bee line for home, regardless of fences, ditches, 
briers, or creek. He cleared the creek at a bound, and 
like a frightened buck went over logs and bushes in 
the body of the woods through which he passed. He 
knew that Sister Sallie would test Bill's wind before 
she got home with the baby, but knew she'd have to 
ride three miles around, and determined to beat the 
old horse if possible. As he ran, he soliloquized : 

" I tole Missus I gwine put dat chile een her arms 
before sundown, en, 'fo' Gawd, Fm gwine do it." 

It was a close race, but the old man, who hadn't 
forgotten all his runaway stunts, had just slung the 
perspiration from his brow and put on his hat when 
old Bill, flecked with foam and bearing his precious 
burden, dashed up to the gate. 

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when mother 
and I, walking the piazza, heard the first blast from 
Henry's horn. '* Listen, mama ! " I cried. 

Ah! those ears that had listened so long and so 



124 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

eagerly for that sound did not need to be told that it 
had blown. 

Instantly she dropped to her knees, and, with hands 
clasped, cried out : '* Blessed Jesus ! " I leaned my 
head against her heaving bosom, and felt the warm 
tears falling on my face. 

When Henry had blown his horn and others had 
taken it up, my sister commanded him to bring the 
two little negroes home, and cautioned him not to 
walk too fast, as they were very tired. Then she turned 
the horse's head towards home. 

The old horse seemed to realize that something was 
up, but didn't catch its full meaning until they had 
passed through the gate and out into the road. With 
one keen cut across his flank with her cowhide, the 
rider said : 

" Now, Bill, to mama with the baby ! " 

That the old carriage horse made full proof of his 
mettle was often declared by those who saw him com- 
ing down the last half-mile stretch of the long three- 
mile run. 

There were many black men and women at that 
front gate anxious to get their hands on '' de baby " 
and place her in Missus' arms ; but Unc' Essick knew 
just where to stand, and, grasping the rein of the 
bridle, he said : ** Gimme de baby, Miss Sallie, gimme 
de baby, chile, en you jump down." 

Out of the arms of my sister he lifted the baby 
and ran toward the piazza, where my mother sat with 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 125 

her arms outstretched. I am not surprised that she 
could not stand on her feet at that moment. 

Running up the steps with a half hundred colored 
women at his heels, Unc' Essick said : ** Here, Missus, 
here de baby — I tole you I'd fetch de baby," and he 
laid the little one in her mother's arms. 

I did not need a kodak to take that picture for me. 
Oh, no. I have it in my heart, and the Hues are 
growing sharper and sharper as the years are going 
by. It is fadeless — as fadeless as the memory of my 
mother's love. 

Mother's eyes were radiant, even through her tears, 
and, clasping to her bosom the little one that Jesus 
promised to bring back to her and me, she said softly : 
" Thank God ! thank God ! " And the baby murmured, 
" Mama," and slipped her little arms around her 
mother's neck. 

VI 

By half-past four o'clock, my father had swung 
around the long semi-circle as he had planned in the 
early morning, and he and Lindsay were making their 
way back to the plantations lying northeast of our 
own — the very territory into which Unc' Essick and 
Sister Sallie had gone. 

Father knew now that the children must be in that 
territory, as no trace of them had been found in all 
the other sections over which it was possible for them 
to travel since they were lost. They could not cross 
Johnson's Creek or Little River, and he felt sure that 



126 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

if the Cox and Pratt plantations could be searched 
before sundown the children would be found. 

They had reached a point four miles from home, 
when father said to his faithful attendant : " Lind- 
say, I am very sick and the horses are tired — we must 
stop a minute and let them rest." 

He stopped his horse by a tree, and, without dis- 
mounting, leaned his head against it. Worn out, the 
poor brutes were perfectly willing to stand quite still 
in their tracks. 

Not more than a minute elapsed, when Lindsay 
said excitedly : 

" Hear dat, Marster ! *' 

Quickly father raised his head and both listened 
intently. They heard in the distance, " Toot ! toot ! 
to-o-o-ot V 

*Twas Henry's horn. 

Without a word, but with a significant glance at 
his slave, the master turned his horse's head toward 
the nearest farm road, leaned forward in his saddle 
and pressed both heels to Little Sam's throbbing 
flanks. The little sorrel responded without a protest, 
and was in an instant going over cotton rows and 
ditches as if fresh from his stall. 

After a dash of two hundred yards over such ob- 
stacles, he leaped the fence into a cross-country road 
which ran nearly a mile at right angles to the direction 
home and then into another which was fairly good and 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 127 

ran two miles before opening into Broadway, the 
thoroughfare on which we Hved. 

Sick and exhausted as my father was, he knew the 
danger of killing his horse. So, on the two-mile road, 
he steadied Little Sam to a fast gallop; but, when he 
turned the sharp corner at Cunningham's shop and 
nearly a mile down the road saw a great crowd of 
people and heard their shouts, he leaned forward still 
more and, putting both hands on the little horse's neck, 
said: 

" Now, Sam, I want your best, your very best." 

He got it. 

The little sorrel, already covered with foam, laid 
back his ears and, with neck outstretched and nostrils 
distended, came down Broadway like a cyclone. 

In the long, hard run, Lindsay was distanced nearly 
a mile. As they measured off quarter after quarter, 
Lindsay could hear more and more distinctly the 
shouts of the jubilant negroes. He tried to answer, 
but was too busy belaboring old Fan on one side with 
a stout hickory switch, and on the other with his old 
hat. The old mule was game, but her rider said with 
a grin : *' Little Sam bus' ole Fan's win'." 

When the splendid little sorrel reached the gate 
from which he had been ridden just twenty-two hours 
before, the master was unable to dismount. Twenty- 
two hours in the saddle without one mouthful of food, 
when relief came, he was unable to throw his leg over 
the horn of the saddle. 



128 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

But Unc' Essick, as usual, was ready for the emer- 
gency. Calling Big Lon to his assistance, the two 
lifted their master off of his horse. With Unc' Essick 
under one arm and Big Lon under the other, he walked 
to the piazza. 

At the top of the steps, he was able to walk unas- 
sisted. Making his way to mother and the baby, he 
pressed his lips to the cheek of the little one, kissed my 
mother tenderly, and murmuring, " Thank God ! " 
went over to a long bench and, with a heavy groan, 
threw himself upon it. One of my sisters ran for a 
pillow and, with a deftness possible only for a woman, 
lovingly placed it under his head. 

Mother motioned Unc' Essick to clear away the 
noisy crowd. This he did very quickly, and when he 
returned, she directed that he assist the master to his 
room. My sisters attended their father, and when 
they insisted that he eat something, he shook his head 
and said: 

" No ; sleep, give me sleep/* 

Aunt Charlotte and mother tried to persuade the 
baby to eat, but she said : " No, I want mama." The 
mother knew that she, too, needed sleep, and that her 
nerves were strained almost to the breaking point. 
They gave her a good warm bath, and then she fell 
into a dreamy, fitful sleep. All night long, mother sat 
with the baby in her arms, quieting her nerves and 
soothing her to sleep again when, now and then, she 
awoke with a start and a scream. 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 129 

The next morning, the baby took some food. The 
tired mother smiled, for she knew now that the Httle 
one was safe. 

I have often been amazed at my mother's power 
of endurance. Though tired and worn and nervous, 
and without sleep for forty-eight hours, she turned her 
attention to my father, and stood over him until her 
ankles were swollen and her whole body racked with 
pain. She found my father's condition very much 
more serious than that of the baby. He was in a semi- 
conscious condition. She had hoped that the sleep for 
which he had begged would calm his nerves and give 
him a desire for food. In this she was mistaken. Ever 
and anon he was giving explicit directions to Unc' 
Essick and speaking quieting words to Little Sam : 

** Essex, tell the boys they must not spare the 
mules — we must find the baby before sundown. 
Steady, Sam, now steady ; can we make that fence, my 
boy ? Good boy, Sam — that's well done." 

My mother and sisters began to fear that that long, 
terrible ride would prove to be his last, but, to their 
great delight, on the third day his mind was clear, 
perfectly clear, though he was distressingly weak. 

I saw my mother's countenance brighten, and that 
day I caught a snatch of the song she was accustomed 
to sing when she. was perfectly happy. 

Then I went out in search of fun. I wanted to see 
two dogs or two roosters fight, or I wanted to get two 
cats and make the fur fly. When mother was happy, I 



130 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

could enjoy any kind of sport; but if she, for any 
reason, was sad, and I knew it, nothing amused me. 

Now, though very weak, my father's mind was 
clear, and he could take a little nourishment; he im- 
proved rapidly. 

The third day, the baby crawled up on her father's 
bed, and, pressing her soft cheek against his, said: 
'' My papa." 

A grateful smile played over the father's face, the 
first since the terrible ordeal that came so near costing 
his I'fe. 

When Unc' Essick called the fourth morning at 
the door to inquire after his master, my father asked 
that he come to his bed. 

" Gawd, Marster ! I'm powerful glad to see you's 
better dis mornin' — you been mighty bad off — you sho 
does look spryer dis mornin'," said the old man. 

" Yes, Essex, ' Missus ' tells me I've been right 
sick ; but I'll be out soon." 

" You sho is been sick, Marster, and. Little Sam, 
you laken kilt dat hoss." 

" How is my little horse ? " 

" Oh, he all right now, suh ; he all right, en ready 
fur anudder ride. But when you git back here dat 
evenin', dat hoss sho wuz dun up. He des drap his 
head down en stan' dar wid de water runnin' off him. 
En de blood runnin' down his legs whar de brier bin 
scratchin' 'em." 

" Did you have him rubbed well, Essex ? " 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 131 

" Yas, suh, en rub uver day since." 

"Did I break his wind?" 

" No, suh, you kyah break Little Sam win' ; you 
mought kill 'im, but you won't break dat boss win'." 

"Take care of Little Sam, Essex; he's the best 
piece of horseflesh I ever owned." 

" Oh, yas, suh ; dat boss all right." 

" And old Fan, is she alive? " 

" Yas, suh ; oh, yas, suh ; but dat ole mule ain't 
gwine do much mo' plowin', Marster ; she so stiff she 
ain't git out de stable yit." 

" Poor old Fan ! She's game, and tried her best to 
keep up with Sam, but, after five or six hours, she 
couldn't do it. When you get her out of the stable, 
Essex, turn her in the pasture, and see that she has 
plenty of water and is fed three times a day. Fan 
gave her life almost for the baby ; we must take good 
care of her till she dies." 

Fan, though called " ole Fan " by the negroes, was 
not old in years — she was really in her prime, but 
father knew that the long ride of twenty-two hours 
had ruined the faithful animal. He determined she 
should have a well-earned and undisturbed rest. 

" Essex, how are things moving on since I've been 
sick?" 

" All right, Marster, all right ; de plows is all run- 
nin' en de hoe ban's doin' putty wuk. All uv 'em 
behave good cepin Mose. Dat a triflin' nigger, Mars- 
ter, dat Mose. He gi^^^e Missus some slack jaw 



132 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

yistiddy, en I laken git on 'im, but Missus wouldn't 
let me. She say wait tel you git well. But, Marster, 
ef dat nigger do it agin, Fm sho gwine tan his hide." 

" All right, Essex, if Mose is impudent to Missus, 
you put it on him." 

But Mose was too sharp — he gave Unc' Essick no 
further opportunity to ** tan his hide." 

VII 

But most things have their humorous side, and all 
my life I've had an eye and ear for the ludicrous. 
This distressing episode in the life of my childhood 
home was no exception to the rule. 

The next day after the children were found, 
mother was rocking her baby, and rubbing the little 
arms and legs where the bugs and insects had bitten 
her the night she slept in the woods. Aunt Charlotte 
came in, and, looking down at the little spotted, bitten 
limbs, said: 

" Missus, ain't you gwine whup dat nigger ? Ain't 
you gwine whup dat Anaky fur tekin' my baby off in 
de woods, whar de skeeters en yudder bugs chaw 'er 
up lak dat ? " 

" No, Charlotte, I shall not whip Anaky. I'm too 
glad to have my precious baby back. I'll not whip 
Anaky." 

Anaky was the oldest of the three children lost. 
My little sister and Hannah were about the same age — 
about three and a half years — while Anaky was nine 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 133 

or ten. Anaky had a flat nose, very thick Hps, an 
ugly countenance, and a still more ugly disposition. 

Aunt Charlotte held Anaky responsible for taking 
the two little children off into the woods, and felt that 
she ought to be punished. She was not at all satisfied 
with my mother's reply, and walked out of the room 
with poorly concealed disgust. 

The next day, she came again, and her wrath was 
still more deeply stirred after holding the baby a few 
minutes in her arms and rubbing with her own hands 
the bumps on the legs of " dat blessed chile.'' 

" Missus, ain't you gwine whup dat nigger ? " she 
asked again. 

" No, no, Charlotte, I'll not whip Anaky ; she 
won't do it any more." 

** Never min', honey, I'm gwine git dat nigger fur 
let de skeeters chaw my baby up dis away," and she 
stalked out of the room muttering vengeance upon 
Anaky. 

It was not many minutes before we heard a wail 
from the orchard. Dear Aunt Charlotte had taken 
Anaky down there, and, stripping three or four good, 
strong switches from one of the trees, was " tannin' 
Anaky's hide," as Unc' Essick said, in fine shape. 

" Run, Rachel, run ; tell Charlotte not to hurt 
Anaky," cried mother. 

Rachel went out of the house and over the fence 
like a bird, but she was too late. Aunt Charlotte had 
done the work, and done it well. 



134 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

When Rachel delivered her message, the black 
mammy shook her head and said : 

" Dat all right ; you tell Missus Anaky sho won't 
do it no mo'/' 

That night, when Anaky's mother came in from the 
field, it looked for a time as if we would have a tor- 
nado or cyclone. I had seen negrc women scrap a few 
times, and was expecting a great time, but was disap- 
pointed. The women were not allowed to fight. But 
it did do me good to see Aunt Charlotte shake her 
fist at Susan and hear her say : 

" You fool wid me, nigger, en I'll bus' you open. 
You think I gwine let dat ugly Anaky tek my baby 
off whar de skeeters chaw 'er up? No, nigger, I tan 
your hide same lak I did Anaky's." 

Aunt Charlotte was now satisfied. She had tanned 
Anaky and bullied her mother, and was now ready to 
scrap with anybody, big or little, who would dare take 
her baby off in " de bushes en mek her sleep whar 
de skeeters en yudder bugs chaw on 'er." 

When the baby and her father had both recovered 
from the suffering entailed by the terrible ordeal 
through which we had all passed, many were the anec- 
dotes told of the experiences had by the searchers 
during the long child hunt. Some were pathetic ; oth- 
ers, quite amusing. 

I want to say that the terrible episode in the life of 
my little sister had a softening influence upon the 
whole household. I am sure that it made me a more 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 135 

thoughtful boy. And now, after nearly three score 
years, if my life has been worth anything to humanity, 
not a little of it is due to the refining influence of my 
little sister — my precious " Rat." 



CHAPTER VIII 

"" A WHOLE PLUG O' MANIFAC " 

After fifty years of freedom, the ranks of the old 
slaves are growing rapidly thinner and thinner. The 
vast majority of them are dead, and those still living 
are scattered to " the four winds." 

A few days ago, a gentleman declared that he 
could not locate one of his father's negroes, though 
he owned more than four hundred of them. Of my 
father's slaves, I know where to find only two — Jack, 
with whom my readers have already become ac- 
quainted, and Mack, his brother. 

If by chance you meet one of your " ole time 
niggers," he expects some gift. It may be of little 
value, but something it must be, just to remind him 
that you haven't forgotten him — a cast-off coat, or 
cravat, or, in the absence of these, a few pieces of 
silver. He seems not to care so much for the value of 
the gift, but the evidence it furnishes of the fact that 
" Marse John " has not forgotten him makes him smile 
with gladness. 

Some fifteen years ago, I was invited to deliver 
an address at Shiloh, the old home church where my 
fathers are buried. My, what a flood of melancholy 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 137 

memories swept over my soul when I stood before 
that great crowd ! It*s an old box church with many 
windows and two large brick pillars in front; in its 
day, a fine country church. (And how much longer 
" it's day " will last I cannot tell.) The old gallery, too, 
built for the slaves, was there, and covered with dust 
and dirt till it was pitiable to behold. 

I looked over that audience, and was pained to 
find that I could recognize only three faces. The peo- 
ple that I knew there years ago, sleep in the large 
graveyard just beyond the brook, while the church 
they built is filled to overflowing by their children and 
grandchildren and the children of others. 

On my right, I saw in the amen corner the seat 
which my father occupied, and saw myself in my first 
pair of pants as I sat by his side. On my left, I saw 
where my mother sat, and, through my tears, I saw 
by her side the smiling face of " Rat," my baby sister. 

In a language all our own, " Rat " and I communi- 
cated to each other our thoughts till we both got 
sleepy. Again, I felt the pressure of my father's hand 
as he pulled me over on his lap and whispered with 
loving tenderness and sympathy, " Now, go to sleep, 
my son." And I know now that while he worshiped 
there went up from his heart a prayer for the tired, 
sleepy, trusting child on his lap. 

That was a hot day in September. While I was 
speaking, I noticed through the door at the left of the 
pulpit a colored man standing with bare head through 



138 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

the whole of my talk. I recognized him at a glance, 
and, I'm sure, his respectful attitude and intense earn- 
estness were very helpful to me. He was one of my 
father's old slaves. As soon as the services were 
concluded, I stepped out of the door and took the 
rough, hard hand of the black man in my own. The 
poor fellow was thin and wrinkled, but a broad grin 
attested his abiding good nature and revealed his 
pearly teeth, as white and sound as ever. With his 
tattered hat in left hand and with sincerity that was 
unfeigned, he said, holding on to my hand: 

" Bless Gawd, Marse John, I so glad to see you. 
I heerd you wus here yistiddy, en I walked five miles 
dis mornin' des to put my eyes on you one mo' time. 
En thang Gawd, I lived to hear you preach, en — " 

" No, no. Mack ; no, no, I'm no preacher." 

" Well, bless Gawd, ef dat ain't preachin' whut 
you bin doin' een dar, whut you call it? True, I 
didn' hear none de white folks shout, but when you 
sorter flung yourself back on your hunkers, en shake 
your head, en begin to fling it out at 'em good en 
strong, bless Gawd, I wus speckin dem people to tar 
loose shoutin' any time, en I wus des stanin out here 
ready to hit a few licks all by myself. Yas, suh, dat 
sounded powerful lak preachin' to me." 

" And you expected to hear the people shout ? " 

" Yas, suh." 

** Do you black folks shout whenever you have 
preaching ? " I asked. 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 139 

** Yas, suh ; Lawd, yas, suh ; tain't no preachin' 
cepin we shout some. En Parson Skinem, he say he 
doin' powerful po' preachin* cepin we shout." 

" Is Parson Skinem a good preacher? " I asked. 

" Yas, suh ; oh, yas, suh ; you kin hear 'im clean 
down to Martin's Mill — he sho is powerful. When 
he git warmed up good, he preach des lak he callin' 
hogs. Des lak you done een dar. When you git to 
callin' dem hogs right good dis mornin', I sho spec 
to hear dem white folks squeal some. Marse John, 
you sho would mek a good nigger preacher." 

" But how are your wife and children, Mack? " 

" Dey all kickin', suh, thang Gawd, but not high ; 
my ole 'oman pestered mightly wid de rumatiz in her 
jints, en Sarah Ann, she got a misery in her lef side 
dis mornin'. Little Joe — das Joe Rogers, you know, 
named arter Marse Joe — he fell down dis mornin' 
comjn' f rum de spring en skin he knee ; en John, named 
arter you, suh, he got married las' Sunday, ole fool, 
en fotch his gal to my house fur me to support, 
but—" 

Hoping to break his narrative and give him one 
long breath, I said : 

" And what kind of wife did John get? " 

" She right good sort o' nigger, I spec," he con- 
tinued, " but whut I doan lak 'bout dat gal, she ain't 
black en she ain't a yaller gal ; but her color is des a 
cross betwixt a terra-cotta and ginger-cake, en din 
again, she talk too much wid her mouf. She bin to 



140 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

school some, en she think she edicated nigger. She 
put up her har des lak de white womens, en she try 
to talk mighty proper." 

" Well, you don't object to her proper talk, do 
you ? " I asked. 

" No, suh ; oh, no, suh, not cepin she git too bigitty. 
Now, le'me tell you whut she say yistiddy. Settin' 
dar at de table eatin* my bakin en greens, she lowed : 

* Fm sorry fur you, but all you peterbaptists, white en 
black, will be lost onless you be 'mersed.' " 

" Well, Marse John, dat des flewed all over me 
same ez pisen." 

By this time I was considerably interested in the 
little family quarrel, and, though my friends had din- 
ner ready and were waiting for me, I ventured to ask : 

" And what did you say to that, Mack ? *' 

" Lawd bless your soul, I des push back my cheer, 
I did, en look dat gal straight een de eye en say, * Look 
here, nigger, if you wus des a man, Fd wallup you all 
over dis yard. Here you set, big ez Trip, eatin' my 
grub en callin' me sich names ez dat. ' Oh,* she say, 

* I didn't mean no harm, pa ' ( call me pa lak white 
folks) ; * I des spoke of you all as peterbaptists.' 

" Den I say, ' I want you to understan* right here 
now, Milindy, else you kin des drap dat knife en 
fork — I want you to 'member, my name ain't Peter, en 
I ain't no Baptist. Does you hear dat ? ' 

" Den dat gal look skeerdt, Marse John — she sho 
did ; en I kinder git sorry fur 'er." 



ON THE OLD PLANTATION 141 

" Talk to me," he continued, " 'bout gwine under 
de water 'fo' you git to Heaven ; no, suh, I'm a sho- 
nuff Mephodis, I is. Didn't ole Marster, whut sleepin' 
over dar een de graveyard, go 'long to Heaven 'dout 
botherin' hisself 'bout 'mersion?" 

" But, Marse John, I spec 'mersion do some dees 
niggers good; some uv 'em look lak dey ain't bin 
wash good since dey wus sot free. I spec it would 
do 'em good." 

And the good-natured fellow chuckled heartily. 

How long he would have continued, I know not, 
but, handing him a few coins, I said : 

** Good-by, Mack, I must go now ; tell John to take 
care of his wife and be a good negro." 

" Tank you, Marse John, tank you, suh; I wus des 
gwine ax you ef you didn't have a quarter stickin' 
roun' dar somers een your ole britches ; tank you, suh, 
dis '11 buy some medicine fur de ole 'oman en a whole 
plug o' manifac fur me. Marse John, ain't you got a 
few crumbs roun' dar een dat lef hand behime 
pocket ? " 

" No, Mack, I don't chew." 

" Well, good-by, Marse John ; I wish you had 
time to tell me 'bout dem boys o' youm. Kin dey run 
ez f ass ez you use to, en is dey ez bad ez — " 

" Good-by, Mack, I must go now." 

" Good-by, Marse John, I hates to see you go. 



142 ON THE OLD PLANTATION 

but" — looking at his money — **I sho gwine make de 
yaller spit come." 

I left the negro, puzzled after all, to know whether 
he was really glad to see me, or whether his joy was 
due to the delightful anticipations of a " whole plug 
o' manifac." 



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